3   1822  01099 

4119     ^^1 

It )  11 

».^  '  1 

S^^ 


I    iinWiwuiMiaiHWaHWaBw 


■JW  .kc\'.  Hoii')'  Keji<]a.lB()(5ffl,RI^)] 


A  srKKKT  IN  palkstim; 

August    23.    1921 


I^tgli  SItglita  of  tl|p  mh  Wmih 


Word  Pictures  of  Famous  Scenes 
and  Places  Overseas 

BY 
REV.  HENRY  KENDALL  BOOTH,  D.  D. 


LONG  BEACH,  CALIFORNIA: 
THE  PRESS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1922 


DEDICATED 

TO 

THE  LONG  BEACH 

ROTARY  CLUB 


FOREWORD 


This  little  brochure  embodies  the  record  of  a 
few  of  the  many  vivid  impressions  of  a  jour- 
ney made  in  the  summer  of  1921.  The  dated 
illustrations  are  from  photographs  by  the 
author. 


CONTENTS 


1.  Edinburgh  Castle. 

2.  The  Pyramids  of  Gizeh. 

3.  Westminster  Abbey. 

4.  Antiquity's  Mightiest  Temple. 

5.  A  Swiss  Garden  of  Enchantment. 

6.  In  the  Catacombs. 

7.  Going  Down  to  Jericho. 

8.  Karnak  by  Moonlight. 

9.  The  Paradise  of  the  Poets. 
1  0.  A  Ramble  Thru  Pompeii. 
II.  In  Flanders  Fields. 

1  2.  Blue  Galilee. 

1  3.  The  Castle  of  Chillon. 

14.  Florentine  Vignettes. 

1 5.  Versailles. 

1 6.  Damascus. 

17.  A  Night  in  Venice. 
1  8.  By  the  Avon. 

1 9.  The  City  of  Minarets. 

20.  Nazareth. 

21.  Under  the  Dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

22.  The  Glory  of  the  Alps. 

23.  The  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 


EdiebuiiFfflhi  Cagttle 


"Thy  rough  rude  fortresfi  gleams  afar 
Like  some  bold  veteran  grey  in  arms, 
And,  marked  with  many  a  seamy  scar. 
The  ponderous  wall  and  massy  bar 
Grim, — rising  o'er  the  rugged  rock — 
Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war. 
And  oft  repelled  the  invader's  rock." 

—BURNS. 


Edinburgh  Castle 


IT  WAS  my  last  night  in  Edinburgh.  The  hour  was  late  and 
the  clocks  were  chiming  eleven  when  I  left  my  hotel  for  a  last 
stroll  down  Princes  Street,  that  well  named,  truly  royal  high- 
way of  this  old  Scottish  city.  All  day  it  had  been  teeming  with 
the  tides  of  human  life  that  by  tram  car  and  automobile,  on  foot 
and  in  carriage  had  surged  back  and  forth  in  a  never-ending- 
Hood.  It  was  silent  now  and  well-nigh  deserted,  with  shuttered 
shops  and  empty  sidewalks.  A  fine  mist,  drawn  in  from  the 
northern  sea,  hung  like  a  veil  over  the  roofs,  or  drifted,  ghost- 
like, through  the  side  streets.  Above  the  mist  the  moon  was 
shining,  now  and  then  revealed  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds, 
transforming  the  whole  scene  by  its  mystic  touch  into  a  fairyland 
of  unearthly  beauty. 

Seen  through  this  moon-lighted,  silvery  mist  everything  was 
shimmering,  elusive,  ethereal.  The  towering  Gothic  spires  of 
the  Scott  Monument  seemed  like  the  white  flames  of  a  torch 
soaring  heavenward.  The  formal  gardens  on  Princes  Street  had 
lost  their  monotonous  regularity  and  become  an  intriguing  maze. 
And,  as  I  strolled  down  the  long  sidewalk,  the  moss-covered 
monuments  and  marble  statues,  the  columned  porticos  and  broad 
squares  took  on  a  new  and  mystic  beauty.  At  last  I  halted  to 
stand  opposite  the  long  sweep  of  greensward  and  flowers  that 
leads  the  eye  across  a  deep  valley  with  its  trees  and  terraces,  up 
the  steep  slope  to  rest  upon  that  beetling  precipice  upon  whose 
summit  stands  the  old  castle  of  Edinburgh  like  a  "New  Jeru- 
salem scaling  heaven,"  as  Stevenson  well  terms  it. 

Frowning  down  from  its  sheer  heights  upon  the  city  at  its 
foot  that  old  castle  has  for  centuries  dominated  this  Athens  of 
the  north  as  the  Acropolis  of  this  Scottish  capital.  Around  that 
rock  from  the  days  of  the  Picts  onward  the  life  of  Edinburgh 
has  been  centered.  Changeless  it  stands  through  the  passing- 
generations,  and  to  it  many  times  daily  the  eyes  of  its  citizens 
are  lifted  in  pride  and  love.  And  I  could  not  but  think  of  how 
the  great  of  Edinburgh's  past  had  stood  many  times  in  admira- 
tion on  this  very  spot  and  looked  up  at  that  romantic  old  castle. 
Bruce  and  Wallace,  King  James  and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  John 
Knox  and  James  Guthrie,  Scott  and  Burns,  Christopher  North 
and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson — how  that  unending  group  of  kings 
and  prophets,  writers  and  statesmen,  hover  around  this  old  spot. 
There  it  stood  above  me  now  in  all  its  rugged  grandeur,  silhou- 
etted against  the  sky,  this  historic  and  romantic  fortress  whose 
halls  are  haunted  by  the  specters  of  Scotland's  ancient  glory. 


I  Jut  this  night  it  was  all  swathed  in  misty  light  that  hung  about 
it  like  a  silvery  mantle,  softening  its  harsh  outlines  and  obliter- 
ating the  scars  of  time  and  age  until  it  seemed  to  hang  like  a 
very  dwelling  place  of  light  between  earth  and  sky,  no  longer 
grim  but  glorious,  not  a  fortress  now,  but  a  cathedral.  And  as  I 
mused  upon  that  scene  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  revealed  in  it 
the  true  expression  of  the  genius  of  that  great  people  who  w^ere 
cradled  under  the  shadow  of  that  castle — strong,  rugged,  vigor- 
ous, hard,  austere,  but  with  their  austerity  and  hardness  suffused 
by  the  misty  veil  of  sentiment  and  affection,  and  glorified  by  the 
heavenly  light  of  religious  fire  and  passion. 


II 


The  Pyramidg  of 


Through  the  long  centuries  of  history 
Casting  thy  shadotv  o'er  the  river  Nile, 
Thou   mighty,   massy,    towering   pile. 
Thou  dwelling-jilace  of  silence  and  of  mystery. 

—H.  K.  B. 


The  Pyramids  of  Gizeh 


THE  sun  was  setting,  and  the  western  sky  was  all  aglow  with 
light  as  I  bade  farewell  to  my  hospitable  dragoman,  Sheik 
Abdul,  and  left  his  Bedouin  home  and  walked  down  the 
dusty  road  to  board  my  car  for  Cairo.  Long  shafts  of  sunlight 
touched  the  tall  palm  trees  and  flat  roofed  houses,  suffusing  them 
with  splendor.  I  turned  for  a  last  long  look  at  the  pyramids  of 
Gizeh.  High  above  my  head  they  reared  themselves,  silhouetted 
against  the  golden  afterglow,  the  monstrous  tombs  of  those 
colossal  egotists,  Cheops,  Khefren  and  Menkaura,  seemingly  more 
stupendous  than  ever  as  their  long  shadows  crept  across  the 
plain.  Behind  them  as  they  towered  aloft  on  their  elevated 
plateau,  rolled  the  billowing  sands  of  the  Sahara.  Midway  they 
stood  between  the  glowing  green  of  the  Nile  valley  and  the  eter- 
nal desolation  of  the  grim  desert,  seeming  like  mighty  sentries 
guarding  this  fair  land  against  the  fiery  genii  of  the  sands. 

Old  Egypt  is  incarnate  in  the  pyramids,  old  Egypt  of  tower- 
ing genius,  resistless  might.  Builded  as  royal  tombs  by  proud 
monarchs  who  believed  Egypt's  rule  eternal,  their  kingdom  has 
long  since  gone,  but  these  great  memorials  yet  remain,  seem- 
ingly immortal.  And  I  could  not  but  think  of  how  they  had  thus 
stood  against  the  sunset  splendor  to  thrill  the  souls  of  men  for 
five  thousand  years.  Egyptian,  Babylonian,  Greek,  Persian, 
Syrian,  Roman,  Crusader,  Bedouin,  Frank  —  each  had  stood 
beneath  their  shadow  and  gazed  at  their  towering  bulk  in  admira- 
tion and  awe.  Through  all  the  centuries  the  tides  of  human  life 
had  swirled  about  these  unchanging  monuments.  They  were 
here  when  Nebuchadnezzar  threatened  the  nations,  when  Alex- 
ander led  his  phalanxes  to  victory,  when  Caesar  was  campaigning 
in  Gaul.  Perchance  the  infant  eyes  of  the  Christ  gazed  upon 
them  in  that  immortal  Flight  into  Egypt.  Pilgrim,  Crusader, 
Saracen  and  Turk  dwelt  beneath  their  shadow,  the  soldiers  of 
Napoleon  camped  at  their  feet.  Nations  came  and  went,  king- 
doms rose  and  fell,  continents  were  discovered,  inventions  multi- 
plied, world  wars  were  fought,  civilizations  were  born  and  buried 
— yet  through  all  these  changes  of  human  life  they  have  kept 
their  ceaseless  vigil  over  the  lotus  land  of  Egypt.  Here,  in  these 
mighty  memorials  of  far  off  antiquity,  one  is  face  to  face  with 
the  Past,  with  the  Yesterday  of  the  race.  Never,  not  even  in 
the  presence  of  the  Alps,  "rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun," 
have  I  felt  so  strongly  the  sense  of  changelessness,  of  eternity,  as 
when  I  gazed  in  that  golden  sunset  upon  those  man-made  moun- 
tains, the  pyramids  of  Gizeh.  and  my  thoughts  were  swept  back 


through  the  corridors  of  the  centuries  to  that  hour  in  the  dawn 
of  humanity's  morning  when  by  the  magic  wand  of  the  genius 
of  the  Pharaohs  they  rose  between  the  desert  and  the  Nile,  there 
to  stand  unchanged  through  the  ages  as  symbols  of  eternity. 


III 

w 

esttmmgtteF  A 

ihhej 

''Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 

Lay 

heroes,  patriots,  bards  and 

kings. 

Here  ivhere  the  fretted  aisles  prolong                             | 

The 

distant  notes  of  holy  song, 

As 

if  some  angel  spoke  again, 

'All 

peace  on  earth,  goodwill  to 

men.' 

If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 

Oh, 

here  let  prejudice  depart." 

—SCOTT 

WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 


Westminster  Abbey 


IT  WAS  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  that  I  was  privileged  to  visit 
Westminster  Abbey.  Founded  by  Edward  the  Confessor  as 
"Westminster"  because  it  was  situated  in  the  west  side  of 
London,  it  has  been  for  over  a  thousand  years  the  most  famous 
of  all  English  cathedrals,  the  center  of  English  religious  life. 
With  its  two  fine  Norman  towers,  its  immense  rose  windows,  its 
cloisters  and  transepts,  this  splendid  Gothic  edifice  impresses  the 
beholder  by  its  size  and  magnificence,  while  the  softening  hand 
of  time  has  made  it  dignified  and  venerable.  And  the  interior  is 
awe-inspiring  with  its  pointed  arches,  massive  fluted  columns, 
long  aisles  and  glorious  chapels.  But  more  than  all  else  is  it  hal- 
lowed by  its  memorials.  For  this  is  more  than  a  church,  it  is  the 
Pantheon  of  the  Anglo  Saxon  race.  Like  the  church  of  Santa 
Croce  at  Florence,  it  has  been  for  generations  the  burial  place  of 
kings  and  queens,  statesmen  and  warriors,  poets,  artists  and  men 
of  letters,  and  here  amid  its  sacred  associations  have  the  kings 
of  England  been  crowned.  All  the  greatness  of  England  finds 
sanctuary  here.  To  walk  through  the  aisles  of  this  great  min- 
ster is  to  find  one's  self  surrounded  by  the  spirits  of  the  great 
and  mighty,  those  immortals  whose  genius  has  given  them  a 
lasting  place  in  human  hearts.  Here  in  the  North  Transept  is 
the  "Statesmen's  Aisle"  with  the  graves  and  monuments  of 
Chatham  and  Pitt,  Fox,  Palmerston,  Peel,  Hastings,  Cobden  and 
Gladstone.  Not  far  away  are  buried  England's  greatest  scien- 
tists— Herschel,  Darwin,  Newton,  Kelvin.  Along  the  great  nave 
are  the  statues  of  Wordsworth  and  Kingsley,  Keble  and  Dr. 
Arnold  of  Rugby,  Matthew  Arnold  and  Isaac  Watts,  and  the 
founders  of  Methodism,  Charles  and  John  Wesley.  In  the  middle 
of  the  nave  one  pauses  to  muse  above  the  square  slab  in  the 
pavement  marked  by  two  words — "David  Livingstone."  Far 
away  amid  the  wilds  of  Africa  is  buried  the  heart  of  the  intrepid 
explorer  and  missionary,  but  his  body  lies  here,  borne  by  loving- 
black  men  through  leagues  of  jungle,  to  sleep  amid  the  immortal 
dead  in  this  quiet  Abbey.  And  as  we  walked  on  and  on  through 
this  avenue  of  royal  souls,  with  philosophers,  statesmen,  scien- 
tists, all  about  us,  we  could  not  but  be  thrilled  with  a  sense  of 
the  glory  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and  feel  upon  us  the  touch  of  that 
genius  for  freedom  and  truth,  whose  representatives  slumber  in 
this  necropolis.  And  as  our  wandering  footsteps  led  us  at  last 
to  stand  in  silent  reverence  before  the  great  slab  near  the 
entrance  where  sleeps  England's  unknown  soldier,  we  felt  a  new 
pride  in  that  race  to  which  we  belong.  For  here,  amid  the  kings 
and  rulers,  the  leaders  and  the  geniuses,  lies  the  body  of  a  simple 


English  lad,  because  he  gave  his  life  for  liberty  on  the  battle- 
fields of  the  Great  War.  That  simple  slab  that  covers  his  form, 
expresses  more  eloquently  than  words  the  honor  in  which  our 
Anglo-Saxon  race  holds  freedom  of  thought  and  life. 

The  afternoon  service  was  about  to  begin  and  we  found  seats 
in  the  "Poet's  Corner."  All  around  us  were  slabs,  busts,  tablets, 
memorials,  bearing  names  that  are  household  words.  We  honor 
the  statesmen  and  the  kings,  but  it  is  the  poets  that  we  love,  for 
they  have  reached  our  hearts  with  their  winged  words  of  song. 
Here  is  the  fine  old  tomb  of  Chaucer,  and  near  by  are  the  graves 
of  Browning,  Tennyson,  Milton,  Spenser,  Scott,  Burns  and  John- 
son. I  sat  directly  beneath  the  fine  memorial  of  William  Shakes- 
peare. The  greatest  English  poet  leans  in  thoughtful  attitude 
upon  a  pile  of  books,  his  published  plays,  and  on  a  scroll  in  his 
hand  I  read  these  words  from  "The  Tempest" : 

The  cloud-capped  toTvers,  the  gorgeous  palaces 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself 
Yea,  all  ivhich  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve 
And,  lil(e  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 
Leave  not  a  raclf  behind. 

The  solemn  w^ords  seemed  fitly  to  blend  with  the  stately 
music  of  the  great  organ  that  filled  the  cathedral  and  the  chanted 
cadences  of  the  choir  that  echoed  from  the  Gothic  arches  far 
above.  Through  the  murky  twilight  of  the  vast  interior  long 
shafts  of  sunlight  were  broken  by  the  great  rose  windows  into 
prismatic  colors  and  I  thought  of  the  famous  lines: 

Life  lil(e  a  dome  of  many  tinted  glass 
Stams  the  ivhite  radiance  of  eternity. 

Through  the  long  Sunday  afternoon  I  sat  there,  while  those 
lights  of  red  and  blue  and  amber  touched  carved  pew  and  rood 
screen,  choir  stall  and  royal  tomb,  transforming  them  by  their 
glory.  A  long  flame-colored  ray  crept  over  the  reredos  into  the 
Poet's  Corner  and  suffused  with  its  rosy  splendor  the  marble 
bust  of  our  own  Longfellow,  touching  that  kindly  face  with  its 
living  light.  It  was  that  "touch  of  nature  that  makes  the  whole 
world  kin."  America  and  England — we  are  one  in  language  and 
literature — and  Westminster  Abbey  is  the  common  shrine  of  our 
Anglo-Saxon  race. 


IV 


Antiqiiity^g  Miglitiest 
Temple 


Towering  'gainst  Syrian  skies  of  blue 

O'er  Baalbec,  mightiest  temple  of  the  past. 

Rise  those  majestic  Columns  of  the  Sun 

All  golden,  glowing  with  the  sun's  own  hue; 

Amid  the  silence  of  that  ruined  fane 

Like  a  great  six-stringed  lyre  they  seem  to  stand 

Waiting  the  touch  but  of  a  giant  hand. 

To  sound  tlie  praises  of  the  God  of  Day. 

—H.  K.  B. 


TEMPLE   WALL  AND  COLUMNS   OF  THE  SUN 
Baalbec,    Aujiust    27,    1921. 


Antiquity's  Mightiest  Temple 


LONG  hours  we  rode  over  the  plain  of  Coele-Syria  between  the 
great  Lebanon  ranges,  and  all  was  brown  and  bare  on  either 
side  of  the  dusty  road,  endless  miles  of  empty  moorland. 
Then  far  across  the  plain  we  saw  a  cluster  of  trees  against  a  dis- 
tant hillside,  a  splash  of  green  upon  a  field  of  brown ;  then  as  we 
drew  nearer,  there  rose  against  the  sky  the  mighty  Columns  of 
the  Sun ;  and  we  were  at  Baalbec.  The  little  town  huddles  about 
the  great  mound  upon  which  are  the  ruins  of  the  most  splendid 
temple  of  antiquity.  Here  Baal  was  worshipped  in  the  days  of 
Solomon;  Helios  in  the  Grecian  era;  Jupiter  and  Bacchus  in 
Roman  times.  Here  Theodosius  built  amid  the  broken  pagan 
temple  a  Christian  basilica  and  Tamur  and  the  Arabs  made  a 
fortress.  But  through  all  these  nineteen  centuries,  in  spite  of 
earthquake,  vandalism  and  the  hand  of  time — these  six  great 
stone  columns  have  dominated  this  vast  ruined  temple  and  the 
whole  plain,  even  as  they  do  today.  It  is  truly  a  Temple  of  the 
Sun  and  those  old  Syrians  who  first  worshipped  here  the  Ruler 
of  the  Day  would  find  His  power  still  in  evidence.  For  it  is  the 
sun  that  is  sovereign  here.  His  warm  caress  has  changed  the 
stone  from  cold  white  to  glowing  gold,  and  through  broken  archi- 
trave and  shattered  roof  he  pours  his  ardent  beams.  And  what  a 
majestic  shrine  it  is  even  in  its  ruin ! 

One  walks  amazed  around  its  outer  walls  and  gazes  in  stupe- 
faction from  the  groves  and  gardens  that  surround  it  at  the 
Cyclopean  stones  that  form  its  foundations.  Sixty  feet  long  and 
sixteen  feet  high,  they  are  the  largest  hewn  stones  in  the  world, 
and  one  wonders  how  any  human  hands  could  ever  have  placed 
them  where  they  are.  A  long  flight  of  steps  leads  to  the  main 
entrance  and  one  finds  himself  standing  on  a  lofty  stone  plat- 
form and  all  about  are  the  remains,  not  of  a  single  structure  but 
a  whole  vast  complex  of  temples.  He  wanders  from  the  entrance 
court  to  the  arena  of  the  Hexagonal  Court,  and  on  into  the  outer 
court  and  inner  court,  surrounded  on  every  side  by  masses  of 
fallen  masonry — broken  columns,  sections  of  friezes,  fragments 
of  doorways,  bits  of  architraves,  capitals  carved  with  lions' 
heads,  gigantic  foundation  stones — and  all  on  an  almost  super- 
human scale.  The  Temple  of  Bacchus,  which  is  small  in  compari- 
son with  the  other  buildings,  is  in  itself  simply  tremendous  in 
size.  To  pass  along  what  was  once  its  outer  colonnade  under  the 
solitary  leaning  column  and  let  the  eye  wander  up  its  vast  dimen- 
sions, gives  one  a  sense  of  littleness  in  the  presence  of  its  huge 
size  and  height.     The  interior,  with  its  grand  columns,  masses 


of  carved  stone  ornamentation,  fluted  pilasters  and  delicately 
sculptured  doorway,  gfives  some  little  idea  of  the  ornate  beauty 
of  the  original.  But  the  crowning  glory  of  this  huge  temple  is 
that  portion  which  was  once  the  Temple  of  the  Sun,  Fifty-four 
towering  Corinthian  columns  once  upheld  its  great  roof — of  these 
only  six  are  now  standing.  But  what  majestic  things  they  are! 
Rising  from  a  great  platform  of  huge  blocks  of  stone  to  a  dizzy 
heigiit,  surmounted  by  a  glorious  architrave,  elaborately  carved 
with  acanthus  leaves  and  lions'  heads,  one  marvels  that  any 
human  mind  could  have  conceived  or  human  hands  erected  those 
pillars.  To  stand  beneath  them  and  look  up  at  them  against  the 
blue  Syrian  sky  makes  you  reel.  All  things  else  around  you 
seem  small  in  comparison  with  these  giants.  These  Columns  of 
the  Sun  dominate  Baalbec  even  as  the  ruins  of  Baalbec  surpass 
all  the  temples  of  ancient  times.  They  are  majestic  beyond  any 
words  to  describe — the  very  incarnation  of  the  might  and  genius 
of  antiquity. 


That  evening  as  I  sat  on  the  porch  of  the  hotel  in  the  soft 
Syrian  twilight  the  last  thing  I  saw,  looming  against  the  mauve 
background  of  the  darkening  Lebanon  mountains,  w^as  the  sight 
of  those  great  Columns  of  the  Sun  keeping  guard  over  that  vast 
ruin  at  their  feet  as  they  have  done  through  the  centuries.  And 
I  shall  cari-y  the  memory  of  those  mighty  columns,  seemingly 
i-ising  by  magic  amid  the  vast  empty  plains  of  Syria,  so  long  as 
I  live.    For  Baalbec,  once  seen,  can  never  be  forgotten. 


V 

A  §wi§§  Gairdeii  of 


"From  the  deep  shadow  of  the  silent  grove, 

I  lift  my  eyes,  and  trembling  look  on  thee, 

Broiv  of  eternity,  thou  dazzling  peak. 

From  whose  calm  heights  my  dreaming  spirit  7no%ints 

And  soars  away  into  the  infinite! 

—F.   BRUNN. 


THE  JUNGFRAU,    FROM   INTERLAKEN 
July    13,    1921 


A  Swiss  Garden  of  Enchantment 


INTERLAKEN  lies  in  a  beautiful  broad  valley  in  the  heart  of 
Bernese  Switzerland,  at  the  foot  of  precipitous  cliffs,  tree- 
covered  and  beautiful  with  waterfalls.  The  beauty  of  the 
two  lakes  between  which  it  lies  and  from  which  position  it 
derives  its  name  is,  however,  overshadowed  by  the  glory  of  the 
Jungfrau,  which  lifts  its  massive  white  pyramid  into  the  sky  to 
dominate  the  little  village  by  its  majestic  purity. 

The  day  was  intensely  hot  and  when  the  evening  came  it 
had  the  soft,  balmy  languor  of  the  tropics,  and  to  wander  forth 
was  like  a  night  in  the  Orient.  Near  the  hotel  was  a  great  public 
garden  and  into  this  we  turned  for  interest  and  amusement.  We 
stepped  within  the  gates  into  a  scene  that  rivaled  the  enchant- 
ments of  the  Arabian  Nights.  All  about  was  a  mass  of  tapering 
green  pines  and  cedars  with  gorgeous  banks  of  colored  bloom  at 
their  feet,  arranged  in  strange  and  fantastic  designs,  like  a  magic 
carpet  of  flowers.  There  were  squares  and  crescents  and  circles, 
a  floral  arabesque,  woven  by  a  master  hand.  A  great  floral  clock 
with  moving  hands  of  vari-colored  bloom,  and  little  gnomes  that 
appeared  from  a  floral  bower  to  strike  the  hours  with  tiny  ham- 
mers upon  silver  bells,  was  unique  enough  to  have  delighted  the 
heart  of  good  Haroun  al  Raschid.  The  air  was  fragrant  with 
the  sweet  scent  of  the  pines  and  the  perfume  of  rare  flowers.  I 
sat  down  upon  a  bench  and  gazed  about  me.  Before  me  rose  the 
facade  of  an  Oriental  palace,  lighted  by  colored  lights,  gay  with 
the  moving  figures  of  people  in  festive  garments — the  Kursaal 
or  Casino  of  Interlaken.  From  this  building  the  eye  traveled  up 
and  up  the  face  of  a  great  clilf,  green  with  dwarf  pines,  until  it 
merged  with  the  sky,  and  far  above  was  the  single  brilliant  elec- 
tric light  of  a  tourist  hotel,  gleaming  like  an  evening  star.  Here 
and  there  amid  the  trees  was  the  soft  light  of  swinging  vari- 
colored lanterns  glowing  upon  the  dusky  shade  beneath.  From 
the  hidden  orchestra  of  this  Casino  came  strains  of  exquisite 
music,  and  through  the  softer  passages  the  plash  of  the  nearby 
fountain  wove  a  theme  that  spoke  of  the  peace  of  the  evening. 
The  soft  languorous  air,  the  perfume  of  the  flowers,  the  twitter 
of  sleepy  birds  in  the  trees,  the  soft  lights  and  sweet  music,  made 
the  hour  a  time  of  magic  dreams  in  a  veritable  garden  of 
enchantment. 

And  now  through  the  interlacing  branches  of  the  trees  came 
the  long  fingers  of  the  moonlight,  thrusting  their  soft  radiance 
upon  the  beds  of  bloom,  the  crystal  fountains.  And  as  the  moon 
at  last  soared  over  the  tree  tops,  I  turned  reluctantly  to  go,  and 


faced  the  crowning-  touch  of  that  perfect  evening:.  For 
through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  far  across  the  valley,  slowly 
emerging  from  dimness  to  radiance,  as  with  the  magic  of  the 
lights  of  a  theater,  I  saw  the  snowy  splendor  of  the  Jungfrau, 
bathed  in  the  moonlight,  towering  in  ethereal  beauty,  sublime 
with  a  glory  as  of  the  world  above. 


VI 

le  like  Cato(C(D)iml])g 


"The  infant  Church,  of  love  she  felt  the  tide 
Stream  on  her  from  her  Lord's  yet  recent  grave; 
And  then  she  sTniled,  and  in  the  catacombs. 
With  eye  suffused,  but  heart  inspired  true, 
On  these  2valls  subterranean,  where  she  hid 
Her  head  mid  ignominy,  death  and  tombs. 
She  her  Good  Shepherd's  hasty  image  drew." 
—MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


In  the  Catacombs 


STRAIGHT  as  an  arrow  southward  from  the  walls  of  Rome 
across  the  Campagna  stretches  the  Via  Appia.  Builded  by 
Appius  Claudius  three  centuries  before  Christ,  this  mag- 
nificent old  highway  has  echoed  to  the  tread  of  Roman  legions 
and  the  rumble  of  chariot  wheels  as  into  the  Eternal  City  the 
victorious  conquerors  carried  the  spoils  of  the  world.  And  one 
day  over  the  stone  blocks  of  this  old  road  there  passed  a  little 
band  of  Roman  soldiers  and  in  their  midst  an  old  man  in  chains, 
and  henceforward  this  highway  was  to  be  sacred  to  the  hearts 
of  men — for  this  venerable  prisoner  was  the  Apostle  Paul,  going 
to  Rome  to  appeal  to  Caesar.  But  as  we  passed  out  of  the  Porta 
San  Sebastiano,  and  sped  on  our  way  over  the  ancient  road  that 
July  afternoon,  we  saw  no  splendid  legions  but  only  a  long  line 
of  rumbling  carts  with  their  sleeping  drivers  slowly  moving 
toward  Rome;  and  all  about  us  was  the  desolate  and  silent  Cam- 
pagna, once  swarming  with  prosperous  villages.  On  either  side 
was  the  beginning  of  that  endless  line  of  ruined  tombs  that 
borders  the  road  for  miles,  and  far  away  the  skeleton  of  the  old 
Claudian  aqueduct  stretching  across  the  Alban  Hills.  The  ruined 
tombs,  the  broken  walls,  the  desolate  plain,  seemed  to  mourn 
over  the  long-dead  civilization  that  once  flourished  here,  and  the 
mournfulness  of  the  surroundings  gave  a  sense  of  fitness  to  the 
announcement  of  my  guide  that  we  had  now  arrived  at  the 
catacombs. 

We  passed  through  a  stone  gate  and  up  a  tree-bordered  lane 
to  a  little  eminence,  from  which  could  be  seen  far  away  the 
seven-hilled  city  by  the  Tiber  with  its  gardens  and  palaces  and 
on  the  horizon  the  mighty  dome  of  St.  Peter's.  A  brown-robed 
Trappist  monk  handed  us  some  tapers  and  led  us  along  a  grav- 
eled walk  to  a  doorway.  The  opened  door  disclosed  a  long  flight 
of  steps  leading  down  into  darkness,  and  the  air  was  chill,  the 
hand-rail  dripping,  as,  by  the  feeble  light  of  the  tapers,  we 
slowly  descended.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  we  found  ourselves 
in  a  narrow  passageway  whose  roof  might  be  dimly  seen  high 
above  our  heads ;  and  on  either  side,  tier  upon  tier,  were  marble- 
lined  recesses,  some  open,  some  closed  with  marble  slabs.  Here 
in  these  niches  were  buried  in  the  early  centuries  of  Christian 
history  the  bodies  of  the  Christian  dead.  All  about  us  were  the 
mortal  remains  of  those  who  first  accepted  the  name  of  Christ 
in  Rome,  many  of  them  doubtless  members  of  that  Roman  church 
to  which  Paul  wrote  his  immortal  epistle.  Perhaps  yonder  slab 
covered  the  body  of  Prisca  or  Aquila  or  Timothy.     And  how 


many  a  mangled  form  had  been  tenderly  borne  down  that  long 
stairway  from  the  arena  of  the  Colosseum,  here  to  sleep  through 
all  these  centuries.  On  and  on  our  guide  led  us,  through  a  perfect 
maze  of  corridors  and  passages,  to  stop  at  last  in  a  large  empty 
chamber,  an  ancient  Christian  chapel.  On  the  walls  were  dim 
mosaics,  depicting  Biblical  scenes  and  in  one  coraer  was  a  marble 
episcopal  chair.  It  required  no  great  imagination  to  people  that 
tiny  chapel  again  with  the  forms  of  the  early  Christians  fleeing 
from  the  cruel  persecutions  of  the  Roman  emperors  to  find 
refuge,  and  here,  amid  the  chill  subterranean  dampness  of  this 
little  room,  lighted  only  by  flickering  torches,  singing  songs  of 
love  to  Christ  and  offering  prayers  for  their  martyred  brethren 
in  prison  and  arena.  We  followed  our  guide's  little  candle  as 
he  led  us  on  again,  and  on  the  slabs  and  walls  as  we  passed  we 
saw  the  dove,  the  anchor,  the  palm-branch,  carved  by  the  early 
Christians,  mute  evidences  of  the  triumphant  faith  of  these  dai'k 
days  of  Christianity.  We  entered  a  tomb-chamber  to  gaze  upon 
the  remains  of  two  of  those  who  so  long  ago  were  buried  here, 
and  on  the  wall  above  was  carved  the  symbol  of  the  resurrection. 
To  walk  as  I  did  that  day  for  miles  through  those  endless  rows 
of  tombs,  with  all  around  such  symbols  of  the  faith  of  those  old 
days,  gave  me  as  never  before  a  sense  of  the  heroism  of  those 
early  years  of  Christianity.  For  the  cold  and  dampness  seemed  to 
penetrate  one's  very  bones  and  the  eternal  darkness  settled  upon 
one's  soul  like  a  black  pall.  That  those  early  Christians  kept 
faith  and  hope  amid  those  catacombs  bears  witness  to  the  tri- 
umph of  Christianity  no  less  than  their  brave  death  upon  the 
sands  of  the  Colosseum. 

As  we  emerged  from  the  catacombs  the  end  of  the  day  was 
near  and  the  sun  was  already  sinking  below  the  horizon.  Miles 
away  across  the  Campagna  I  saw  again  the  city  of  Rome.  And 
clear-cut  as  a  cameo  against  the  western  sky  stood  above  its 
roofs  that  wonderful  dome  of  St.  Peter's.  All  else  was  obscure, 
dim,  hazy  in  the  advancing  twilight.  Over  the  ruined  temples 
and  palaces,  the  glory  of  Rome's  past,  that  great  church  stood 
out  supreme  that  evening  over  the  city  of  the  Caesars.  But  I 
knew  that  it  was  the  faith  of  those  patient  souls  that  endured 
and  suffered  and  now  sleep  in  the  catacombs  beneath  my  feet 
that  had  made  possible  that  great  church  that  rules  the  Eternal 
City.  Even  so  the  Christian  religion  that  stands  lofty,  eternal, 
dominating  the  world  and  its  life,  owes  its  triumph  to  the  myriad 
unknown  souls  whose  faith  has  endured  the  shock  and  struggle 
of  the  centuries. 


VII 

Gcoiimg  D([])we  to 


"This  plain  made  bright  with  streaks  of  crimson  clay 
And  sprinkled  o'er  with  grains  of  golden  sand, 
Once  saw  the  host  of  Israel  as  it  lay 
With  pike  and   trumpet  in  war's  fierce  array; 
Now  pensive  silence   broods  upon  this   land." 

—HAZARD. 


ELISHA'S   FOINTAIN.   JERICHO 

Aug^ust    15,    1921 


Going  Down  to  Jericho 


THE  sun  was  just  rising  over  the  Judean  hills  and  the  air 
was  still  chill  on  those  mountain  heights  on  which  Jerusa- 
lem stands,  when  we  left  the  hotel,  and  in  an  ancient  Ford 
car  rattled  over  the  cobblestones  and  through  the  Jaffa  Gate. 
We  passed  along  the  ancient  city  wall,  skirted  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  climbed  a  steep  hill,  and  looked  back  for  a  last  glimpse 
of  the  city  of  Jerusalem,  rising  like  an  ancient  fortress  from  the 
Valley  of  the  Kedron,  the  sun  glittering  like  fire  from  the  dome 
of  the  Mosque  of  Omar.  Then  the  olive  g]'oves  suddenly  ended, 
the  parched  herbage  amid  the  rocks  ceased,  and  we  found  our- 
selves winding  amid  a  waste  of  rocky  hills,  barren,  desolate,  sin- 
ister. We  were  in  the  wilderness  of  Judea,  that  chaos  of  sand 
and  rock  that  constitutes  one  of  the  most  forbidding  landscapes 
in  the  world.  It  seemed  fit  only  to  be  the  haunt  of  wild  beasts 
and  of  wilder  men.  And  as  if  to  give  point  to  the  menace  of  the 
land,  on  the  winding  narrow  road  we  met  drove  after  drove  of 
laden  camels  driven  by  agile,  gaily-robed  Bedouins,  whose  fierce 
eyes  and  wild  gestures  gave  an  uneasy  sense  of  insecurity  and 
danger.  And  the  final  thrill  came  with  the  sight  far  above  us 
on  the  sky  line  of  the  hills  of  the  picturesque  figures  of  Arab 
soldiery,  armed  with  long  rifles,  keeping  watch  over  the  road, 
because  but  a  few  weeks  before  a  lone  traveler  had  been  set 
upon  by  Bedouins  and  killed.  The  background  of  Jesus'  famous 
parable  was  vividly  before  us,  for  we  were  on  that  Jericho 
road  where  from  time  immemorial  men  have  "fallen  among 
thieves."  And  as  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  our 
minds  we  rounded  a  curve  and  came  to  the  "Inn  of  the  Good 
Samaritan."  Before  the  war  a  place  of  hospitality,  it  is  now 
roofless  and  in  ruins,  tenanted  only  as  it  was  that  morning  by  a 
group  of  Bedouins  and  their  camels.  It  w^as  at  this  point  that 
the  encircling  hills  parted  for  one  of  those  vistas  of  the  "land 
that  is  very  far  off"  so  characteristic  of  Palestine,  and  we  saw 
far  below  us  shimmering  through  the  haze  the  vast  plain  of 
Jericho  and  on  the  horizon  the  blue  waters  of  the  Dead  Sea.  A 
mile  farthei"  and  we  came  to  the  edge  of  a  great  gorge  which  the 
Brook  Cherith  has  cleaved  through  the  rock  and  on  the  opposite 
side,  clinging  like  an  eagle's  eyrie  to  the  precipice,  the  old  Mon- 
astery of  St.  George.  Here  it  was  that  Elijah  was  fed  by  the 
ravens.  The  descent  was  rapid  now  and  we  sped  swiftly  down- 
ward until  we  reached  the  level  of  the  plain  and  entered  a  little 
huddle  of  tumble  down  houses — the  modern  village  of  Jericho — 
and  passing  through  its  one  crooked  street  with  its  few  stone 
houses  and  stores,  we  came  to  a  placid  pool  of  water,  enclosed 


in  a  stone  wall — the  Fountain  of  Elisha,  whose  waters  have  been 
in  past  ages  the  source  of  the  gardens  of  Jericho,  and  that  still 
furnishes  sustenance  to  the  oleanders,  pomegranates,  bamboos 
and  jasmines  that  make  it  an  oasis  in  the  midst  of  the  Jordan 
Valley  with  its  slime  pits  and  ugly  desolation.  Nearby  was  the 
ancient  city  of  Jericho,  now  a  few  mounds  with  the  ruins  of  brick 
walls  revealed  by  the  archaeologist's  spade.  Standing  on  one  of 
these  highest  mounds  I  looked  over  the  landscape.  To  the  south- 
ward over  a  grotesque  and  repellent  waste  of  sickly  white  and 
yellow  sand  and  clay  I  could  see  the  green  water  of  the  Dead  Sea 
covered  w^ith  the  mist  of  its  own  eternal  evaporation.  Eastward 
a  dense  tangled  growth  of  willows  and  shrubbery  marked  the 
course  of  the  Jordan,  and  beyond  rose  the  mountains  of  Moab, 
delicate,  dream  like,  spirituelle,  the  dome  of  Nebo  recalling  the 
great  law-giver  and  the  days  of  the  Exodus.  Across  the  plain, 
grim  and  terrible,  with  its  beetling  precipices  and  terrific  masses 
of  rock,  rose  the  the  Mount  of  the  Temptation.  And  somewhere 
amid  those  square  chiseled  mountain  blocks,  in  the  awful  and 
savage  grandeur  of  that  mountain,  our  Lord  looked  down  upon 
this  spot  where  I  was  now  standing,  then  a  great  and  populous 
city  with  its  lights  and  its  music,  while  His  soul  w-restled  in  the 
darkness  with  the  powers  of  the  unseen  world.  And  through 
its  streets  as  the  thronging  crowd  pressed  upon  Him,  that  same 
One  later  walked  to  find  welcome  and  hospitality  in  one  of  those 
ruined  houses  beneath  my  feet,  then  the  home  of  Zaccheus.  To 
stand  on  that  spot,  where  once  the  trumpets  of  the  Hebrews  had 
laid  low  the  walls,  to  look  out  upon  that  plan  where  once  Sodom 
and  Gomorah  had  stood,  to  see  those  mountains  of  Moab  where 
Moses  looked  upon  the  Promised  Land  from  afar,  to  watch  the 
winding  course  of  the  Jordan,  sacred  in  song  and  story,  to  lift 
my  eyes  to  the  mountains  of  the  wilderness  of  Judea  or  to  turn 
them  to  where  at  my  feet  gleamed  the  mirror  of  the  fountain 
of  the  prophet — brought  to  me  a  flood  of  emotions  too  deep  for 
words.  I  was  in  a  land  where  every  stone  was  vocal  with  mem- 
ories, every  hill  and  valley  reminiscent  of  a  Sacred  name  or  a 
Scripture  event.  And  this  is  the  charm  of  Palestine,  as  it  fell 
upon  me  there  at  Jericho,  that  in  this  tiny  country,  one  is  face  to 
face  at  every  turn  of  the  road  with  sacred  sights  and  scenes,  and 
that  the  old  Book  lives  again  in  this,  its  native  land. 


GHAND  HYPOSTYLE   HALL,  KARNAK 
August    15.    1921 


Karnak  by  Moonlight 


THE  burning  orb  of  the  sun  had  ended  its  sovereign  sway 
over  the  land  of  the  Nile  for  another  day  and  had  sunk 
behind  the  horizon,  and  the  swift  Egyptian  night  had 
fallen,  but  the  air  was  still  hot  and  not  a  leaf  was  stirring.  On 
the  porch  of  the  little  pension  dinner  had  been  served  by  candle- 
light, and  the  barefooted  Arab  waiter  had  retired  with  his  whis- 
pered "Mah  salaami."  Over  the  nearby  mosque  the  moon  was 
just  rising  when  there  was  a  touch  on  my  arm  and  by  me  stood 
my  Coptic  dragoman  Saleeb,  and  in  the  street  below  the  patient 
donkeys. 

We  soon  passed  by  the  more  pretentious  dwellings  of  Luxor 
into  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  and  into  a  long  avenue  of  syca- 
mores that  overhung  the  dark  waters  of  an  irrigation  ditch.  On 
we  padded  through  the  thick,  warm  dust  of  the  road.  Silently, 
so  close  that  we  could  touch  them,  a  long  file  of  loaded  camels 
passed  like  ghosts  in  the  night.  Then  came  groups  of  gaily  clad 
men,  ever  chatting,  and  bands  of  women  in  trailing  black  robes, 
ever  silent.  Now  and  then  there  opened  the  vista  of  the  interior 
of  a  mud  hut,  with  its  dim  shadowy  figures  of  kneeling  camels 
and  huddled  sheep,  and  in  the  center  of  the  courtyard  the  flare 
of  coals  in  the  fireplace  and  the  flitting  figures  of  women,  the 
recumbent  forms  of  men.  But  none  spoke  any  word,  and  the 
sharp,  vicious  bark  of  the  dogs  was  our  only  greeting  as  we 
passed.  A  little  hillock  was  crowded  with  dark  figures,  and 
through  the  night  came  a  weird,  monotonous  chant.  "It  is  a 
whirling  dervish,"  was  Saleeb's  answer  to  my  spoken  query.  At 
last  we  reached  the  wonderful  avenue  of  sphinxes  with  the 
majestic  pylon  at  its  end  that  marks  the  entrance  to  the  great 
Temple  of  Karnak.  A  short  colloquy  with  the  Arab  guard,  an 
iron  door  swung  wide,  and  we  stood  in  the  courtyard  of  the  most 
famous  of  all  Egypt's  temples. 

All  around,  in  the  confusion  created  by  centuries  of  earth- 
quake, war  and  vandalism,  lay  masses  of  vast  stones,  overturned 
and  broken  statues,  fragments  of  obelisks,  pediments  of  columns, 
like  some  gigantic  wreckage  left  by  the  grim  sport  of  Titans. 
Before  me  rose  two  huge  tapering  monolithic  obelisks,  and  one 
mighty  towering  column,  still  complete  and  perfect,  to  witness 
to  the  one  time  magnificence  of  this  greater  outer  court.  Yet 
now  in  ruins,  seen  thus  in  the  moonlight,  with  all  its  harsher  out- 


lines  softened,  the  scene  was  entrancingly  beautiful,  a  realm  of 
romance  and  of  mystery. 

It  was  but  a  few  steps  more  and  I  stood  in  that  part  of  the 
temple  that  the  hand  of  man  and  time  had  spared  such  utter 
ruin, — the  great  Hypostyle  Hall  of  Karnak. 

All  about  me  was  a  veritable  forest  of  columns,  so  immense 
and  massive  as  to  have  seemed  squat  and  heavy,  had  not  their 
great  height  and  the  graceful  lotus-capitals  that  crowned  them 
given  them  a  lift  and  lightness  that  made  them  beautiful.  As  one 
gazed  at  those  hundred  enormous  columns,  as  the  eye  wandered 
up  to  the  fragments  of  the  huge  roof  that  still  remained,  wonder 
and  awe  filled  the  mind.  That  majestic  temple  seemed  too  great 
for  human  hands,  a  work  rather  of  demigods  than  of  men. 

I  was  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  central  portion  of  the 
shrine,  once  covered  by  a  great  stone  roof  from  wind  and 
weather.  But  the  roof  has  long  since  gone,  and  the  temple  stands 
open  to  the  sky.  Seen  by  day  it  is  a  myriad  huge  columns  over- 
powering the  beholder  with  their  size  and  majesty.  But  now,  in 
the  moonlight,  some  of  the  darkness  and  mystery  that  once  held 
sway  here  had  returned.  Down  into  those  dim  recesses  the  moon 
was  sending  long  shafts  of  light.  Here  and  there  in  its  brilliant 
rays  stood  revealed  the  chiseled  figure  of  some  god  or  king  of 
ancient  Egypt,  or  the  delicate  traceries  of  some  lotus-capital. 
But  into  the  cavernous  depths  of  the  vast  interior  the  moonlight 
could  not  penetrate,  and  the  larger  part  of  the  temple  was 
wrapped  in  darkness.  The  night  was  warm  and  intensely  still. 
No  sound  could  be  heard  save  the  distant  monotonous  chant  of 
the  dervish  on  his  hillside.  Standing  thus  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  could  almost  see  in  the  darkness  the  swirl  of  white  garments, 
smell  the  fragrance  of  perfumed  censers,  and  the  dervish's  chant 
became  the  song  of  priest  and  celebrant  as  they  swept  through 
those  dim  colonnades.  All  about  me  were  the  ghosts  of  those 
ancient  days  when  Rameses  the  Great  ruled  this  land  of  the  Nile 
and  this  vast  temple  was  filled  with  worshippers. 

In  the  warm  silence  of  that  summer  night  the  glory  of  old 
Egypt  laid  hold  on  me,  her  power,  her  grandeur,  as  expressed  in 
those  great  columns,  huge  statues,  mighty  obelisks,  tumbled 
masses  of  stone.  Egypt  lies  in  ruins,  her  story  is  an  oft-told  tale, 
but  the  spell  of  Egypt  lingers  on  at  Karnak,  and  it  fell  on  the  soul 
of  one  who  stood  in  that  majestic  temple  one  moonlight  night 
and  listened  to  the  whispers  of  the  Past. 


IX 

Tlie  Paradise  of 
the  Poets 


Far  from   my  dearest  friends,  'tis  mine   to  rove 
Through  bare  grey  dell,  high  wood  and  pastoral  cove, 
His   wizard  course  where  hoary  Derxvent   takes 
Through  crags  and  forest  glooms,  and  opening  lakes. 
Where  silver  rocks  the  savage  prospect  cheer 
Of  giant  yews  that  frown  on  Rydal's  tnere; 
Where  peace   to  Grasmere's  lonely  island  leads, 
To  ivilloivy  hedgerou's  and  to  emerald  meads. 
Her  bridge,  nide  church,   and  cottaged  grounds 
Her  rocky  sheejncalks  and  her  woodland  bounds. 

—WORDSWORTH. 


VIKVV    FROM    BRIDGE,    GRASMERE 
June    20.    1921 


The  Paradise  of  the  Poets 


AT  SUNSET  of  that  June  day  we  found  ourselves  standing 
by  the  shores  of  a  httle  lake  awaiting  the  ferry  that  was 
to  carry  us  to  our  hotel.  Across  the  lake  the  hotel,  a  three- 
story  building  of  rubble,  with  green  ivy  drooping  over  window 
and  wall,  nestled  amid  masses  of  trees  at  the  foot  of  a  long  range 
of  mist-covered  hills.  The  short  ferry  trip  revealed  a  charming 
vista  of  green  islands  and  winding  channels  ending  on  the  west- 
ern horizon  in  a  great  range  of  purple  mountains  massed  against 
the  silvery  western  sky.  We  were  at  Windermere,  in  the  heart 
of  the  English  lake-country,  made  immortal  by  the  English 
poets,  and  every  little  hill,  every  lake,  every  waterfall,  every 
stream  was  enshrined  in  verse  by  those  famous  bards  who  lived 
in  this  paradise  and  sang  its  praises  in  their  poetry.  One  of 
those  distant  peaks  was  Coniston,  beneath  whose  shadow  is  the 
former  home  of  Tennyson  and  in  its  quiet  churchyard  the  grave 
of  John  Ruskin.  Around  the  lake  are  the  favorite  dwelling  places 
of  Mrs.  Hemans  and  Christopher  North.  And  as  we  journeyed 
the  next  day  to  Grasmere  and  its  tiny  lake  amid  the  reeds,  we 
passed  the  homes  of  Harriet  Martineau,  champion  of  freedom; 
and  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby  immortalized  in  "Tom  Brown's  School 
Days";  "Nab  Cottage,"  where  Coleridge  and  Dr.  Quincey  once 
lived;  and  residences  made  forever  famous  by  Matthew  Arnold, 
Charlotte  Bronte,  John  Keats,  Thomas  Carlyle,  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  Robert  Southey,  Charles  Lamb,  and  Shelley,  nestle 
amid  these  hills  and  by  these  charming  lakes.  But  the  poet- 
laureate  of  this  exquisitely  beautiful  lake  country  was  Words- 
worth, and  scarce  a  place  in  all  this  region  that  Lowell  called 
"Wordsworthshire"  but  finds  its  mention  in  his  poetry.  Rydal 
W^ater,  Duddon  Valley,  Derwentwater,  Rothay,  Ullswater, — at 
every  turn  we  looked  upon  some  scene  made  immortal  by  its 
mention  by  Wordsworth. 

And  to  lovers  of  Wordsworth  his  shrine  is  found  in  the  little 
village  of  Grasmere.  Here  we  found  a  quaint  two-story  cottage 
bowered  in  vines,  with  a  tiny  garden  in  the  rear.  The  interior  is 
but  dimly  lighted  by  diamond-paned  windows  and  the  little  rooms 
are  furnished  with  the  simplest  furniture.  Yet  here  in  what 
he  called 

"The  lovely  cottage  in  the  guardian  nool(" 

dwelt  William  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  Dorothy  for  ten  years ; 


and  here  this  great  poet  of  Nature  amid  the  sylvan  beauty  of 
this  sequestered  spot 

"learned 
To  loolf  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,    but   hearing,    oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity." 

And  here  it  was  that  he  came  to  know  the  God  who  reveals  him- 
self in  nature,  and  on  that  old  black  table  in  the  corner  of  his 
study  at  Grasmere  he  could  write : 

"/  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 
Whose  dn>elling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air 
And  the  blue  sl(y,  and  in  the  mind  of  man." 


Filled  with  the  memories  of  this  g-entle  bard  who  was  truly 

"A  lover  of  the  meadoivs  and  the  woods 
And  mountains — " 

I  strolled  that  evening  through  the  winding  streets  of  the  little 
village  in  the  long  northern  twilight.  I  passed  ivy-covered 
houses,  their  dooryards  full  of  hollyhocks  and  wallflowers,  by 
hedgerows  fragrant  with  roses,  through  a  bowling-green  where 
two  old  men  were  solemnly  playing  bowls,  and  sat  down  at  last 
to  rest  on  the  stone  wall  of  a  bridge  that  spanned  a  tiny  stream 
in  the  center  of  the  village.  On  one  side  of  the  stream,  rising 
from  the  water's  edge,  were  a  cluster  of  houses,  ivy-mantled  from 
rooftree  to  ground,  reflected  as  in  a  mirror  in  the  limpid  waters 
of  the  stream ;  on  the  other  the  little  parish  church  in  whose 
churchyard  Wordsworth  sleeps  his  last  deep  sleep.  The  mists 
hung  over  the  rocky  peak  of  Helm  Crag  above  me,  and  the  dark- 
ening shadows  began  to  fall.  All  around  were  the  bracken  cov- 
ered hills,  the  silvery  waterfalls,  the  green  woods  with  the  soft 
splotch  of  color  of  an  occasional  copper-beech,  the  charming  tarns 
and  fells,  the  blue  lakes,  the  sloping  velvety  meadows ;  and  before 
me  that  crystal  stream  set  in  its  framework  of  emerald — a  pic- 
ture of  perfect  peace.  A.nd  I  did  not  wonder  that  this  was  to 
the  poets  what  Southey  called  "an  earthly  paradise,"  or  that 
Wordsworth  prayed  to  be  laid  to  rest  under  the  yew  trees  in 
Grasmere  churchvard. 


X 

A  MamMe  Throuiiglhi 
P(D)innipeii 


"To  Hiancl  within  the  City  Disinterred 
And  hear   the   autumnal  leaves   like   light  footfalls, 
Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets,  and  hear 
The  Mountain's  slumberous  voice  at  intervals 
Thrill   through  these  roofless  halls." 


A  Ramble  Through  Pompeii 


WHEEZING  and  puffing,  with  man}^  a  jolt  and  jar,  the 
decrepit  Itahan  train  crawled  slov.iy  along-  from  Naples 
to  Pompeii  that  hot  August  day  while  dust  and  cinders 
swirled  in  clouds  through  the  open  w^indows  of  our  compartment. 
Yet  these  many  discomforts  were  compensated  by  the  view  of 
the  blue  bay  on  our  right  and  the  changing  panorama  of  groves 
and  vineyards  and  quaint  stone  villages  on  our  left.  And  now  here 
and  there  in  the  railroad  cuts  could  be  seen  ugly  lava  beds,  and  the 
great  cone  of  Vesuvius  with  its  pillar  of  white  smoke  drev*'  stead- 
ily nearer;  and  the  shadow  of  that  tragedy  that  on  that  other 
August  day  so  long  ago  overwhelmed  that  smiling  Roman  city 
hung  over  us  as  we  alighted  at  the  station  marked  "Pompeii.' 

No  trace  of  the  old  city  w^as  to  be  seen  as  we  walked  up  a 
long  winding  avenue  among  the  trees  until  we  came  to  a  long- 
incline  of  rough  stone  pavement  and  passed  under  a  stone  arch- 
way, and  suddenly  we  found  ourselves  in  old  Pompeii.  There  it 
was  before  us,  buried  for  nineteen  centuries  from  the  sight  and 
memory  of  man  and  uncovered  once  more  by  the  archaeologist's 
spade  to  the  light  of  daj'.  We  were  walking  on  the  very  pave- 
ments over  which  the  gay  Pompeians  passed,  and  in  the  lava- 
blocks  of  the  street  could  be  seen  the  ruts  worn  by  the  chariot 
wheels,  and  there  were  the  stepping  stones  by  which  the  Pom- 
peian  ladies  daintily  walked  dry-shod  as  they  crossed  the  oft- 
flooded  street.  We  passed  a  great  open  court  and  within  were 
the  remains  of  one  of  the  public  baths,  the  marble  lined  plunge 
as  perfect  as  though  just  builded,  the  colors  still  bright  upon  its 
portico  and  pillars.  Here  was  a  bake  shop  w-ith  its  great  brick 
ovens  in  which  were  found  charred  loaves  with  the  baker's  stamp 
upon  them,  ready  for  the  morrow  that  never  came.  There  was 
a  wine  shop  with  its  marble  counter  and  amphorae  where  the 
convival  spirits  met  to  quaff  the  sparkling  Falernian. 

Another  corner  and  we  found  ourselves  in  the  old  Forum. 
On  one  side  was  the  public  market  and  the  remains  of  fruits  and 
vegetables  still  were  to  be  seen  among  the  ashes,  and  nearby  the 
fish  market  with  fish  scales  still  to  be  seen  beneath  its  counters. 
And  all  about,  on  walls  and  buildings  were  bulletins,  official  busi- 
ness, notices  of  elections,  tax  lists,  scrawls  and  names  and  all  that 
literary  miscellany  that  gathers  in  a  public  place  in  every  age. 
What  a  strange  feeling  comes  over  one's  soul  to  see  these  relics 
of  the  daily  life  and  thought  of  so  long  ago.  All  about  were 
altars  and  columns  and  porticos  and  pillars  and  lu-oken  statues — 
remains  of  the  fine  temples  to  jMercury  and  Apollo  and  Isis  that 


once  bordered  this  great  square.  Near  by  were  the  palaces  and 
fine  homes,  most  of  them  now  roofless  and  in  ruins,  but  with  the 
once  bright  colors  of  floor  and  pillar  to  be  seen  and  on  the  walls 
the  wonderful  mosaics  and  frescoes  that  were  the  glory  of  old 
Pompeii. 

One  house  still  remains,  partly  restored  by  modern  hands 
to  give  us  some  faint  idea  of  the  beauty  of  a  Pompeian  home,  the 
House  of  the  Vettii.  One  passed  through  the  atrium  or  recep- 
tion room  into  the  peristyle,  the  heart  of  the  house.  Its  large 
court,  open  to  the  sky,  surrounded  by  a  corridor  of  marble  pillars ; 
its  gay  formal  gardens,  fountains  and  statues,  marble  benches 
and  pools,  make  a  scene  of  such  exquisite  beauty  as  one  only 
sees  in  dreams.  No  wonder  Pompeii  was  the  Riviera  of  old  Rome, 
nor  that  the  charm  of  its  blue  sky  and  beauteous  homes  drew  to 
it  the  Roman  nobles  for  rest  and  pleasure. 

For  hours  we  rambled  on  through  the  streets  and  houses  of 
this  old  Roman  city,  fascinated  by  the  intriguing  thoughts  as 
w^e  looked  upon  the  very  inmost  life  of  the  days  of  Imperial  Rome. 
We  came  at  last  into  the  great  amphitheater,  tier  upon  tier  of 
stone  benches  where  once  20,000  people  sat  through  the  long 
afternoon  while  on  the  grassy  arena  where  we  stood  gladiators 
fought  "to  make  a  Roman  holiday."  And  here  upon  the  walls  of 
the  entrance  was  this  inscription  in  Latin,  "A  troop  of  gladiators 
will  fight  in  this  amphitheater  the  last  day  of  August."  How 
strange  to  read  these  words!  For  that  day  never  came,  but 
while  the  people  were  gathered  in  this  place,  as  Bulwer-Lytton 
so  vividly  portrays  it,  that  great  mountain  that  still  towers  over 
Pompeii  hurled  its  flaming  death  upon  the  doomed  city,  to  lie 
here  forgotten,  until  in  our  day  we  can  walk  again  its  streets  and 
stand  in  its  amphitheater  and  muse  upon  its  departed  glories. 

Footsore  and  weary,  w^e  left  Pompeii  at  the  end  of  that  won- 
derful day  of  poignant  memories  and  set  our  faces  again  toward 
Naples.  And  as  we  passed  on  our  way  again  through  the  vine- 
yards and  groves,  past  towns  and  villages,  my  thoughts  were 
still  in  Pompeii  and  busy  wdth  that  day  so  long  ago  when  all  in 
a  moment  that  beautiful  city  passed  from  life  to  death.  Even 
now,  tenantless  and  empty,  it  slumbers  on  under  the  blue  Italian 
sky,  but  my  walk  through  its  streets  had  made  it  seem  as  though 
it  were  again  peopled  with  those  happy  folk  that  there  laughed 
the  hours  away.  Its  bright  paintings  are  faded,  its  splendid 
temples  in  ruins,  yet  some  touch  of  its  glory  lingers  yet  amid 
its  desolation,  and  its  tragic  fate  tugs  at  the  heartstrings.  And 
as  I  turned  for  a  last  look,  there  hung  over  Pompeii  that  vast 
white  mushroom-shaped  cloud  of  smoke  from  Vesuvius,  beau- 
tiful yet  sinister,  menacing  prophecy  of  some  other  Dies  Irae, 
that  by  the  wrath  of  this  monster  volcano  may  transform  some 
other  city  by  that  blue  bay  into  a  second  City  of  the  Dead. 


XI 

In  Flaeders  Fields 


In  Flanders  Fields  the  poppies  grow 
Between   the  crosses,  row  on  row. 
That  mark  our  place;  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly. 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  beloiv. 

We  are  the  dead;  short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunsets  glotv. 
Loved  arid  were  loved    and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe! 
To  you  from  failing   hands  we   throw 
The   torch;   be   yours   to   hold  it   high! 
If  ye   break  faith  with  us   tvho  die 
We    shall   not    sleep,    though   poppies   grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 

—JOHN  McCRAE. 


BELGIAN    BATTLEFIELDS 


In  Flanders  Fields 


I  WAS  in  "Flanders  Fields".  Early  that  June  morning  we  had 
left  the  hotel  at  Ostende  in  a  great  charabanc,  or  motor-bus, 
and  had  jolted  over  the  rutted  stone  roads  of  Flanders,  bound 
for  the  battlefields.  The  road  ran  straight  as  an  arrow  beneath 
great  double  rows  of  trees,  through  fields  lush  with  the  green  of 
growing  wheat  and  rye  and  flax,  past  quaint  Flemish  stone  farm- 
houses with  their  courtyards,  stone-walled  and  filled  with  live- 
stock and  implements,  and  through  tiny  villages,  huddles  of  stone 
dwellings  with  pointed  roofs  and  mullioned  windows.  All  was 
peaceful  as  with  the  sweet  calm  of  a  perfect  Sabbath  morning. 
Sturdy  peasant  women  looked  up  with  a  smile  from  their  house- 
hold tasks  as  we  passed.  Old  men  sunning  themselves  in  open 
doorways  touched  their  hats.  Chubby  Belgian  children  waved 
and  cheered  as  we  swept  by  them.  No  one  would  ever  dream  as 
he  passed  through  that  smiling  countryside  that  this  picturesque 
Flemish  land  had  ever  known  the  horrors  of  war,  or  echoed  for 
four  years  with  the  incessant  crash  of  great  guns  and  the  shriek 
of  flying  shells. 

But  the  long  line  of  elms  that  overarched  the  roadway  came 
to  an  abrupt  end,  and  beyond  it  stretched  a  row  of  bare,  branch- 
less boles  and  stumps,  bleached  ghastly  white  like  skeletons ;  the 
stone  fences  ended  in  heaps  of  broken  masonry ;  and  we  suddenly 
found  ourselves  face  to  face  with  the  wreckage  of  war.  All  in 
an  instant  we  had  passed  from  heaven  to  hell.  What  an  inferno 
of  desolation  was  here!  The  broad  rolling  fields  with  their 
squares  of  green  were  gone ;  and  all  about  us  was  a  tumbled  mass 
of  dirt  and  stones,  torn,  pitted,  gashed,  tortured  out  of  all  sem- 
blance to  the  good  brown  Mother  Earth ;  here  white  with  piles  of 
crumbled  concrete,  here  gray  with  masses  of  gas-poisoned  dead 
shrubbery,  here  dirty  yellow  from  the  sulphurous  fumes  of 
exploded  mines.  In  place  of  the  ordered  symmetry  of  the  culti- 
vated lands  we  had  left  behind,  all  here  was  chaos.  Great  craters 
dug  by  monster  shells  were  everywhere,  long  crooked  trenches 
wound  in  every  direction,  still  holding  in  their  wattled  walls  the 
dirty  torn  sandbags  behind  which  men  once  crouched  for  safety. 
We  crossed  a  muddy  ditch,  full  of  debris,  and  foul  with  stagnant 
pools  of  green  slime ;  the  ugly  relic  of  the  once  pretty  little  river 
Yser,  for  whose  possession  men  fought  in  legions  upon  its  banks 
until  it  ran  red  with  human  blood. 

We  were  now  in  the  very  heart  of  the  war-torn  district  of 
Belgium  where  German  and  Briton  fought  in  ooze  and  muck  for 


four  long  years,  one  of  the  bloodiest  battlefields  of  all  human 
history,  the  "Planders  Fields"  of  that  gallant  soldier-poet  who 
died  here  to  give  to  his  little  poem  immortality.  Over  yonder 
lay  Dixmude  and  Ypres,  martyr-cities,  whose  crucified  spirits  still 
seem  to  mourn  over  those  ghastly  piles  of  broken  masonry  where 
once  their  happy  children  lived.  All  around  us  were  great  shat- 
tered stone  observation  towers,  broken  fragments  of  bomb- 
proofs,  great  masses  of  rusting  barb  wire,  long  lines  of  entangle- 
ments and  scattered  heaps  of  discarded  gun  carriages,  old  iron 
roofs,  motor  lorries,  shattered  cannon  and  fragments  of  shells,  on 
and  on  in  endless  confusion  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  What  a 
waste  of  ruin,  desolation,  horror!  And  as  we  passed  onward,  to 
crown  the  scene  with  its  full  measure  of  avvf ulness  were  the  acres 
of  white  crosses,  "row  on  row,"  that  mark  the  last  resting-place 
of  the  mortal  remains  of  ten  thousands  of  heroes  like  Colonel 
McRae,  with  whom  our  lads  that  lie  beneath  their  crosses  in 
France  kept  faith  in  answer  to  his  great  challenge.  In  that  hour 
I  was  face  to  face  with  all  the  stark,  fearful,  ghastly  wreckage  of 
war.  And  this  was  "Flanders  Fields"  as  I  saw  it  that  beautiful 
June  day. 

And  yet  "in  Flanders  Fields  the  poppies  grow."  Every- 
where, over  bomb-proofs  and  through  the  ugly  barbs  of  wire 
entanglements  and  crowning  the  long  lines  of  trenches  flamed 
the  scarlet  poppies,  blood-red  as  though  they  were  the  expression 
of  the  sacrificial  spirit  of  those  thousands  who  lie  beneath  those 
torn  fields  of  Flanders.  Reverently  I  stooped  and  plucked  one 
of  those  scai'let  blossoms.  To  me  they  were  the  very  efflores- 
cence of  heroism.  And  as  I  gazed  out  over  those  war-scarred 
fields  I  saw  everywhere  the  lush  grass  growing  green  over  trench 
and  tower,  the  flaming  poppies  covering  ruined  wall  and  broken 
cannon.  It  was  as  though  nature  was  mercifully  seeking  to  oblit- 
erate those  awful  wounds  human  hate  had  made. 

To  mo  that  scene,  with  those  silent  and  gentle  influences  of 
nature  slowly  but  surely  covei-ing  over  the  wreck  that  man  had 
made,  was  prophetic.  Some  day  the  harmony  and  beauty  of 
God's  universe  shall  prevail  over  the  discord  and  ugliness  cre- 
ated by  human  sin,  "Flanders  Fields,"  ugly  and  terrible,  grim 
and  awful,  a  shambles  for  four  years,  a  desolation  now,  shall  be 
redeemed  again  to  beauty  and  peace,  and  that  expanse  of  scarlet 
poppies,  which  was  the  last  sight  we  had  of  it  as  we  sped  on 
our  way,  was  the  flaming  prophecy  of  its  new  day. 


XII 

lee  Galilee 


"BrigJit  'neat It  the  Syricm  sun,  dim  'neath  the  Syrian 

star 
Thus  lieth  Galilee's  sea,  sapphirine  lake  Gennesar, 
Girdled  by  mountains  that  range  purple  and  proud 

to  their  crests 
Bearing    the    btirden   of   dreams — glamor   of   eld   on 

their   breasts; 
And  over  all  and  through  all  memories  stveet  of  His 

name 
Kindling    the    past    with    their    light,    touching    tJie 

future  with  flame." 

—SCOLLARD. 


TIBERIAS   AND   THE   SEA   OF   GALILEE 


Blue  Galilee 


THE  road  northward  from  Nazareth  wound  among  the  rocky 
hills  past  Gath-Hepher,  the  reputed  birthplace  of  Jonah, 
through  Cana  of  Galilee,  the  scene  of  Jesus'  first  miracle; 
and  then  for  miles  across  a  great  tableland  until  we  came  in  sight 
of  two  large  hills,  separated  by  a  saddle  of  rock,  the  Horns  of 
Hattin,  where  Jesus  is  said  to  have  uttered  those  immortal  words 
we  call  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  Below  was  a  long  slope  of 
cultivated  ground,  the  traditional  place  of  the  feeding  of  the  five 
thousand.  And  then  from  afar  there  was  the  gleam  of  water 
through  a  rift  in  the  hills,  and  we  saw  far  below  us,  set  like  a 
gem  of  lapis  lazuli  amid  its  brown  encircling  hills,  the  Lake  of 
Galilee.  Swifty  descending  the  steep  winding  road,  we  passed 
through  pastures  filled  with  sheep,  by  long  hedges  of  dusty 
cactus,  past  a  ruined  fortress  of  Crusader  days  into  the  town  of 
Tiberius.  Once  a  thriving  city,  it  is  now  a  wretched  village  of 
flat-roofed  houses  and  filthy  streets,  only  the  crumbling  towers 
and  ruined  walls  amid  which  the  modern  town  is  builded  giving 
evidence  of  its  ancient  glory.  From  the  elevated  porch  of  our 
hotel  we  looked  down  upon  a  scene  of  poverty  and  squalor — a 
marketplace  filled  with  ragged  men  and  black-robed  women  nois- 
ily bargaining  in  true  Oriental  fashion  for  the  wares  that  filled 
the  sidewalks.  But  that  evening  the  softening  light  of  the 
August  moon  gave  to  the  place  a  touch  of  romance  as  it  rose 
behind  the  minaret  of  the  nearby  mosque  with  its  two  guardian 
palm  trees  and  suffused  the  squalid  houses  with  its  silvery 
splendor. 

The  next  day  we  embarked  in  a  fishing  boat  with  its  lateen 
sail  and  our  crew  of  three  Syrian  boatmen  and  found  ourselves 
on  the  blue  lake.  It  was  strangely  reminiscent  of  the  familiar 
gospel  story  to  feel  the  sudden  gusts  of  wind  that  swept  down 
from  the  hills  to  heel  the  boat  over  until  the  water  almost  came 
over  the  gunwale.  One  could  not  but  remember  that  day  when 
in  such  a  little  boat  One  slept  in  its  bow  while  just  such  a  sudden 
squall  struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  His  fishermen  disciples. 
Our  destination  was  Capernaum  and  after  an  hour's  sail  we 
landed  at  the  pebbly  beach,  and  walked  through  a  grove  of  euca- 
lyptus and  palms  to  the  mass  of  ruins  that  marks  the  site  of 
Capernaum.  Here  was  the  headquarters  of  the  Galilean  Ministry 
of  Jesus  and  this  was  His  adopted  city.  Once  a  busy  place,  as 
the  custom  port  of  the  lake,  nothing  remains  now  to  mark  its 
site  except  the  ruins  of  the  synagogue.  Here  a  French  priest  has 
been  toiling  for  years,  patiently  and  wtih  loving  care  uncovering 


stone  by  stone  this  ancient  sanctuary.  At  least  three-fourths 
of  the  building  has  thus  been  brought  to  the  light  of  day  and  it 
was  with  many  a  thrill  that  w^e  wandered  about  among  the 
broken  walls  and  piles  of  stone,  for  upon  these  carved  pedestals 
and  elaborate  friezes  the  eyes  of  Christ  must  many  times  have 
rested,  and  perhaps  one  of  these  many  pillars  his  hands  may  have 
touched.  Courteous  and  kindly,  the  priest  led  us  about.  He 
pointed  out  the  fact  that  carved  lions  and  eagles  before  us  were 
contrary  to  Jewish  law,  that  forbade  any  "graven  images",  that 
the  whole  synagogue  was  more  Roman  than  Jewish,  and  how  all 
this  confirmed  that  incidental  reference  in  the  gospels  to  the 
generous  centurion  (Luke  7:5), whose  work  this  building  doubt- 
less is.  He  told  us  that  when  his  task  is  finished,  he  hopes  from 
that  mass  of  stone  to  rebuild  this  old  synagogue  as  it  was  in  the 
Master's  day. 

From  this  place,  with  its  sacred  memories,  we  took  boat 
again  and  landed  near  Bethsaida  at  a  little  place  called  Tabagha, 
where  a  priest  has  built  a  little  pension  or  hotel.  Climbing  the 
rocky  path,  we  came  out  upon  a  terrace  high  above  the  lake,  and 
under  the  shade  of  palm  trees  and  oleanders,  we  were  served 
with  afternoon  tea. 

Sitting  thus  in  the  peace  of  that  summer  afternoon  I  looked 
out  over  the  blue  lake  environed  by  the  brow^n  hills  that  shut  it 
in  on  every  side.  And  my  mind  went  back  to  those  days  of  our 
New  Testament,  when  these  barren  hills  were  clothed  with  ver- 
dure, and  all  about  the  lake  were  the  white  cities — Bethsaida, 
Capernaum,  Magdala,  Tiberius,  Gadera — and  the  scores  of  Roman 
villas  with  their  marble  terraces  and  green  gardens — the  lake 
alive  with  sails.  Over  yonder  was  once  the  little  wharf  where  the 
sons  of  Zebedee  dried  their  nets,  and  there  on  the  lake  the  sturdy 
boat  of  Andrew  and  Peter.  And  by  its  shores  there  stood  one 
day  One  whose  commanding  presence  transformed  these  rugged 
Galileans  into  "fishers  of  men".  About  blue  Galilee  lingers  yet 
the  spell  of  those  sacred  scenes  and  the  spirit  of  Jesus  seemed 
very  near  to  me  that  day  as  I  sat  under  the  oleanders  and  looked 
out  upon  the  sparkling  waters  and  dreamed  of  the  days  of  the 
j\Ian  of  Galilee. 


XIII 

lee 

Ca^ 

^ttle  of  Ghillon 

"Cliillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar, — for  'twas  trod 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavemeyit  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard! — May  none  these  marks  efface 
For  the  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God." 

—BYRON. 

The  Castle  of  Chillon 


LIKE  a  journey  through  an  enchanted  land  was  that  morning 
ride  across  Lake  Geneva.  Behind  us  lay  the  parks  and  pal- 
aces of  old  Geneva,  before  us  rose  the  castellated  summits 
of  the  Alps,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  lak  we  passed  an  ever  chang- 
ing, ever  charming  panorama  of  great  chateaux,  tiny  chalets, 
smiling  villages,  stately  hotels,  each  framed  with  verdure  and 
brilliant  flowers  and  reflected  in  the  smooth  waters  of  the  lake. 
No  wonder  that  Voltaire,  Dumas  and  Hugo  praised  the  beauty  of 
this  Lake  Leman,  nor  that,  floating  on  its  placid  surface,  Byron 
could  write  "Childe  Harold".  We  passed  Nyon  with  its  crum- 
bling old  castle,  Lausanne  with  its  chateaux  and  its  great 
cathedral  and  came  to  the  sun-bathed  strip  of  hotels,  parks  and 
stores  that  bears  the  name  of  Montreux,  the  winter  Paradise  of 
Europe.  From  the  window  of  my  room  high  up  in  the  palatial 
hotel  I  gazed  down  upon  a  wonderful  terraced  park  and  out  upon 
the  lake,  blazing  like  a  burnished  mirror  in  the  midday  sun,  and 
far  on  the  dim  horizon  rose  the  cloud-like  summit  of  Mt.  Blanc. 
That  afternoon  we  visited  the  historic  Castle  of  Chillon 
which  has  been  immortalized  by  the  genius  of  Byron.  Rising 
from  the  waters  of  the  lake,  this  venerable  pile  recalls  his 
familiar  lines : — 

^'Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon  s  Tvalls, 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  beloTV 
Its  many  Waters  meet  and  flow." 

As  we  crossed  the  ancient  moat  and  drawbridge  we  felt  as 
though  we  had  suddenly  passed  from  the  twentieth  to  the  fif- 
teenth century.  For  just  beyond  the  gloomy  archway  we  stepped 
into  a  dim  old  room,  its  great  timbered  ceiling  black  with  age, 
on  its  walls  and  chimney  grotesque  old  paintings  and  in  the 
center  of  the  room  the  brass  culverins  that  once  flamed  death  in 
some  medieval  battle.  All  around  us,  as  we  crossed  a  square 
flagged  courtyard,  were  rough  stone  walls  green  with  ivy  and 
mullioned  windows  bowered  in  vines,  and  up  a  steep  stairway  we 
passed  to  enter  into  the  very  Dwelling-Place  of  Romance.  For 
we  stood  in  the  old  dining  hall  of  the  Dukes  of  Savoy,  with  its 
great  fifteenth  century  fireplace,  and  carved  oak  pillars,  and  in 
one  corner  a  quaint  old  sixteenth  century  tile  stove.  How  that 
oak  table  in  the  center  of  the  room  must  once  have  groaned 
beneath  the  heaped  up  viands  of  ducal  feasts  and  those  heavy 
timbers  of  the  ceiling  reverberated  to  the  shouts  of  revelers. 
Finer  still  was  the  great  Hall  of  Justice,  once  the  grand  salon 


with  its  beautiful  black  marble  columns  and  fine  old  brown  pan- 
eled ceiling.  From  the  arched  windows  with  their  deep  embra- 
sures one  looked  out  upon  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  lake.  How 
many  a  perfumed  gallant  must  have  sat  by  his  lady  love  in 
these  old  window  seats,  and  whispered  honeyed  nothings  in  her 
waiting  ear,  while  the  plash  of  the  waters  below  made  music  for 
their  amours.  Up  another  stairway  and  through  the  ducal  bed- 
room with  its  wierd  medieval  paintings  of  animals  and  trees  on 
the  walls,  we  passed  into  the  magnificent  Hall  of  the  Chevaliers 
with  its  wonderful  medieval  furniture,  its  vivid-hued  medallions 
with  their  coats  of  arms,  and  from  the  windows  an  even  more 
splendid  view  of  lake  and  mountain.  For  the  charm  of  this  old 
castle  is  enhanced  a  thousandfold  by  that  lake  in  which  it  is 
embosomed.  And  the  tiny  chapel  with  its  arches  and  bays,  its 
whole  interior  covered  with  beautiful  decorations  and  paintings 
pf  the  thirteenth  century,  crowns  the  old  castle  with  its  final 
touch  of  exquisite  beauty.  That  wonderful  afternoon  amid  those 
halls  and  courtyards,  around  that  swaying  gallery  with  its  loop- 
holes for  the  archers,  its  moats  and  towers,  brought  up  before 
niy  very  eyes  as  nothing  else  I  saw  in  all  Europe  that  era  of 
chivalry  with  its  splendid  pageantry  of  color,  its  clash  of  arms, 
its  romance  and  its  beauty. 

And  then — we  went  down  into  the  dungeons  of  Chillon — and 
all  the  glamour  and  splendor  faded  away.  For  we  stood  shud- 
deringly  in  that  awful  torture  chamber  whose  grotesque  decora- 
tions seemed  like  dreams  of  the  damned,  and  with  a  recoil  of 
horror  were  shown  that  open  door  by  which  the  mangled  bodies 
of  those  who  in  that  room  found  a  lingering  death  were  thrown 
into  the  oblivious  waters  of  the  lake.  A  long  stone  corridor — and 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  great  chamber  hewn  out  of  the  solid 
rock,  with  vaulted  Gothic  arches  borne  on  stone  columns,  and 
high-barred  windows  from  which  a  lone  bar  of  sunlight  streamed 
into  this  cold  dungeon  to  fall  upon  a  stone  column  at  whose  base 
is  a  great  iron  ring  and  chain.  Here  for  four  long  years,  round 
and  round  this  pillar  at  the  tether  of  that  chain,  walked  an  old 
man,  patriot  and  saint,  chained  here  as  a  prisoner  of  Liberty,—  - 
Bonnivard,  the  hero  of  the  people  of  Savoy,  who  has  been  immor- 
talized by  Byron  in  his  "Prisoner  of  Chillon".  To  stand  in  that 
dank  dungeon  all  immured  in  cold  gray  stone  and  to  think  of  the 
despair  and  the  anguish  of  that  lone  prisoner  in  that  dark  vault 

"/i/fe  a  living  grave 
Dclon>  the  surface  of  the  ivave," 

was  to  feel  the  dark  shadows  of  that  cruel  age  when  "man's 
inhumanity  to  man"  knew  no  pity,  and  had  no  mercy.  Those 
splendid  halls  above  were  but  as  a  fleeting  dream,  the  permanent 
memory  of  the  Castle  of  Chillon  is  of  that  terrible  dungeon  and 


of  that  innocent  sufferer  whose  hving  death  has  made  of  it  a 
shrine. 


That  nig-ht  from  the  httle  balcony  of  my  hotel  I  looked  out 
upon  a  scene  of  heavenly  beauty.  Over  the  lake  the  full  moon 
was  shining,  turning  its  vast  expanse  into  silver,  save  where, 
under  the  shadows  of  the  opposite  mountains,  it  lay  shrouded  in 
velvety  darkness.  On  the  terrace  below  an  orchestra  was  playing 
the  "Traumerei".  The  snowy  sails  of  a  few  boats  and  the  lights 
of  the  lake-shore  at  my  feet  ended  in  a  wooded  promontory  and 
at  its  extremity,  clear  cut  as  a  cameo,  were  the  crenellated  bat- 
tlements and  square  towers  of  the  Castle  of  Chillon,  rising  like  a 
dream  castle  from  the  waters  of  Lake  Geneva,  And  far  above 
it  and  beyond,  brooding  spirit-like  above  both  lake  and  castle, 
rose  the  ghostly  spires  of  the  Dent  du  Midi,  clothed  in  eternal 
snow.  The  moonlighted  lake,  the  mystic  mountains,  the  magic 
castle,  the  ethereal  music,  and  over  all  the  glamour  of  tradition 
and  history,  the  haunting  spell  of  romance — these  made  an  hour 
of  rapture  whose  memory  shall  never  fade. 


XIV 

Flereinittiime  Vigmietlte^ 


"O   Florence!  with   the    Tuscan  fields   and   hills 
And  famous  Arno,  fed  with  all  their  rills, 
Thoii   brightest  star  of  star-bright  Italy!" 

~S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


Florentine  Vis^nettes 


THE  DUOMO 


ENTERING  the  great  square  in  the  heart  of  Florence  we  stood 
before  the  world's  most  magnificent  piece  of  architecture — 
the  Duomo  or  cathedral.  Covered  from  street  to  roof  over 
its  whole  vast  exterior  with  blocks  of  marble  mellowed  by  the 
hand  of  time,  its  glorious  facade  like  a  screen  of  marble  mar- 
quetry with  its  bewildering  array  of  exquisitely  carved  windows, 
doorways,  sculptured  saints  and  angels,  it  seems  like  a  golden 
dream  of  some  artist  soul,  or  the  symphony  of  some  master 
musician,  rather  than  a  real  building.  Enraptured  we  stood  in 
admiring  scrutiny  of  the  great  rose  windows  delicate  as  a  lotus 
flower,  the  countless  niches  with  their  winged  figures,  each  a 
poem  in  marble,  the  intricate  and  equisite  carvings  of  the  count- 
less archways  and  pillars — and  all  as  ethereal  as  the  breath  of 
spring.  And  as  if  to  overwhelm  the  beholder  with  beauty,  there 
rises  by  the  cathedral  the  marvelous  Campanile  of  Giotto,  which 
Ruskin  declared  the  most  perfect  product  of  architecture  in  the 
world.  Three  hundred  feet  in  height,  sheathed  in  variegated 
marble,  it  looks  like  a  piece  of  Florentine  mosaic  and  its  beauty 
is  as  exquisite  as  that  of  a  perfect  flower. 

Within  the  huge  interior  we  stood  under  that  wonderful 
dome  of  Brunelleschi  that  seems  vast  as  the  canopy  of  heaven. 
Plain  and  severe  in  comparison  with  its  sumptuous  exterior,  it  is 
yet  glorious  with  memories.  For  that  dim  interior  was  once 
crowded  with  eager  Florentines,  listening  with  beating  hearts 
and  bated  breath  as  the  great  prophet  of  Florence,  Savonarola, 
swayed  their  souls  by  his  impassioned  eloquence.  From  that 
marble  pulpit  in  the  Duomo  as  from  a  spiritual  throne  he  ruled 
Florence  until  his  death.  And  greater  even  than  the  splendor  of 
this  triumph  of  architecture  was  the  glory  of  this  triumphant 
soul.    Savonarola  has  made  the  Duomo  immortal. 

THE  PALAZZO  VECCHIO 

Frowning  down  upon  the  Square  of  the  Senate  is  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  massive  like  a  medieval  fortress.  Its  ugly,  strange,  dis- 
proportionately lofty  tower  has  cast  its  shadow  for  six  hundred 
years  over  many  a  famous  scene  in  this  old  historic  square.  In 
front  of  it  stands  Michael  Angelo's  famous  statue  of  David,  and 
on  the  side  of  the  square  is  the  marvelous  outdoor  sculpture  gal- 
lery, the  Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  with  its  "Rape  of  the  Sabines,"  "Per- 
seus and  Medusa,"  and  other  immortal  statues.  Romantic  as  are 
the  memories  of  this  old  palace,  beautiful  as  are  the  products  of 


Florentine  art  and  genius  that  adorn  this  square,  yet  my  imag- 
ination was  not  stirred  to  its  very  depths  until  I  found  in  the 
pavement  at  my  feet  a  bronze  plate  that  marks  the  spot  where 
Savonarola  was  burned  at  the  stake.  And  my  mind  went  back 
to  that  May  day  in  1498,  when  out  from  the  doorway  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio  he  marched  between  his  guards.  As  his  white- 
robed  figure  mounted  the  pile  of  fagots,  the  crowd  hooted  and 
jeered.  Calm  and  unmoved  he  stood,  then  raised  his  head  and 
looked  into  their  faces  with  the  flashing  gaze  that  had  so  often 
compelled  obedience  from  thousands,  and  the  mob  was  hushed 
into  silence.  The  Bishop  of  Verona  stripped  off  his  priest's  robe 
with  the  words,  "I  separate  thee  from  the  church  militant  and 
triumphant."  Calm  and  clear  came  the  answer — "Militant,  yes; 
triumphant,  no;  that  is  not  yours!"  The  flaming  torches — the 
pillar  of  living  fire — and  wuth  a  prayer  on  his  lips,  that  mighty 
man  of  vision, — preacher,  prophet,  and  statesman — w^ent  to  his 
reward.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  his  spirit  lingers  yet  in 
that  great  Piazza  under  the  shadow  of  that  grim  palace.  For 
Savonarola  loved  Florence  and  for  Florence  he  died. 

THE  CHURCH  OF  SANTA  CROCE 

Passing  by  an  imposing  statue  of  Dante  in  the  square  before 
it,  we  entered  through  the  swaying  brow^n  curtains  in  its  door- 
way the  Westminster  Abbey  of  Florence — the  Church  of  Santa 
Croce.  To  walk  about  it  that  afternoon  was  to  feel  that  one  had 
fellowshipped  with  the  immortals.  For  all  about  are  the  beauti- 
ful tombs  of  Florence  greatest  sons.  Here  is  the  cenotaph  of 
Dante  inscribed  "Onorate  V  altissimo  Poeta."  Here  are  the 
tombs  of  Michael  Angelo,  Galileo,  Cherubini,  Rossini,  Machia- 
velli,  Donatello,  and  that  seemingly  endless  galaxy  of  genius  that 
has  made  the  name  of  Florence  glorious.  And  all  around  were 
the  marvelous  frescoes  of  Giotto,  the  wonderful  statues  by  Dona- 
tello. Here  is  the  shrine  of  the  soul  of  Florence,  the  "city  of 
flowers,"  whose  sons  made  her  more  beautiful  by  the  consecra- 
tion of  their  surpassing  talents  to  her  glory.  To  stand  in  this 
church  is  to  feel  upon  one's  soul  the  spell  of  those  immortals 
whose  greatness  has  made  Florence  the  very  home  of  beauty, 
the  sanctuary  of  genius,  the  dwelling  place  of  poetry,  art  and 
song. 

THE  PONTE  VECCHIO 

Six  bridges  span  the  silvery  waters  of  the  Arno  but  the  old- 
est and  most  picturesque  is  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  Standing  in  the 
tiny  square  on  the  center  of  the  bridge  I  found  myself  looking 
upon  a  statue  of  Benvenuto  Cellini.  It  is  right  and  fitting  that 
this  sculptured  form  should  occupy  this  place,  for  the  bridge  is 
still  as  it  has  been  for  five  centuries,  lined  on  either  side  with 
shops  of  goldsmiths  and  jewelers,  and  this  master  goldsmith  of 
the  ages  stands  here  as  patron  saint.    Generations  of  Florentines 


have  on  this  very  spot  where  I  was  standing,  watched  the  endless 
lines  of  human  traffic,  or  looked  down  upon  the  ever-flowing 
waters  of  the  Arno.  And  it  was  from  this  bridge  that  Tito 
leaped  into  the  stream,  as  readers  of  "Romola"  will  remember. 
It  was  charming  and  romantic  beyond  words  to  describe  to  linger 
here  or  to  wander  amid  its  many  shops  with  their  glittering 
wares. 

But  the  romance  and  beauty  of  this  old  bridge  can  best  be 
seen  as  one  views  it  from  afar.  Early  that  evening  I  wandered 
along  the  banks  of  the  Arno  until  I  came  in  sight  of  the  Ponte 
Vecchio.  The  evening  light  had  turned  the  river  into  a  great 
ribbon  of  silver,  and  reflected  in  it  as  in  a  mirror  was  the  bridge, 
with  its  graceful  arches,  its  tiled  roof,  its  gray  walls — looking 
with  its  four  stories,  the  buildings  clinging  to  its  walls,  its  innum- 
erable windows,  like  a  huge  beehive,  spanning  the  waters  of  the 
river.  The  light  dimmed,  the  waters  darkened,  the  lights  of  the 
bridge  began  to  glow,  and  the  last  view  I  had  of  Florence  was  of 
the  Ponte  Vecchio,  highway  of  the  centuries,  romantic  with  mem- 
ories, crouching  above  the  waters  of  the  Arno,  like  a  sleeping 
giant  keeping  watch  over  the  silent  city. 


XV 

Versaillei 


"Oh,  que  Versailles  etait  superbe 
Dans  ces  jours  purs  de  tout  affront 
Ou  les  prosperites  en  gerbe 
S'epanouissient   sur   son   front." 

—HUGO. 


THE    PALACE    OF    VERSAILLES 


Versailles 


STRAIGHT  through  the  heart  of  Paris  runs  the  Champs 
Elysees,  the  world's  most  magnificent  boulevard,  and  it  was 
out  by  this  splendid  highway,  past  the  Arch  of  Triumph, 
beneath  whose  shadow  now  lies  France's  unknown  hero,  that  we 
drove  through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  through  the  park  of 
Versailles  to  the  Grand  Trianon.  This  Italian  villa,  with  its  relics 
of  the  days  of  the  monarchy  visited,  we  spent  some  time  in  the 
adjoining  building  amid  the  state  carriages  and  palanquins  of 
Madame  Maintenon,  Madame  Pompadour,  Napoleon  I  and  III. 
Gorgeous  with  red  and  gold,  elaborate  with  carving  and  rich 
with  many-hued  upholstery,  they  are  a  riot  of  color,  but  all  their 
splendor  pales  beside  the  coronation  coach  of  Charles  V,  the  most 
splendid  and  costly  carriage  ever  built.  It  was  a  relief  to  turn 
from  this  sumptuous  sight  to  the  simple  pastoral  beauty  of  the 
Little  Trianon,  that  small  chateau  and  park  which  Louis  XVI 
gave  to  Marie  Antoinette.  Here  the  fair  queen  and  the  ladies 
of  the  court  forgot  the  cares  of  state  in  playing  at  farm  life.  The 
little  dairy  and  the  vine-covered  mill,  seen  amid  the  great  trees 
and  across  the  lily-strewn  ponds  of  this  park  with  their  rustic 
bridges,  make  a  picture  never  to  be  forgotten,  and  recall  those 
days  of  gaiety  when  royalty  laid  aside  its  robes  and  here  returned 
to  its  carefree  youth. 

Crossing  a  courtyard  of  immense  proportions  we  found  our- 
selves before  a  vast  complex  of  buildings,  the  great  palace  of 
Versailles,  the  hunting  lodge  of  Louis  XIII,  which  Louis  Qua- 
torze,  well  named  "the  Magnificent",  turned  into  the  most  splen- 
did royal  residence  in  Europe.  Many  of  the  most  dramatic  events 
in  French  history  have  taken  place  in  this  courtyard,  and  from 
its  central  balcony  was  announced  the  death  of  each  king.  We 
passed  up  the  staircase  and  through  the  splendid  rooms  and  cor- 
ridors filled  with  paintings,  statues  and  historical  relics,  each 
one  seemingly  more  splendid  than  the  one  before.  The  Hall  of 
the  Tennis  Court  recalls  the  days  of  the  French  Revolution  and 
was  the  cradle  of  French  liberty.  The  Coronation  Hall  is  mem- 
orable for  its  great  canvases  and  for  the  impressive  statue  of 
"Napoleon's  Last  Days  at  St.  Helena"  in  which  the  sculptor  has 
depicted  the  despair  and  heartbreak  of  that  great  soul.  The 
Hall  of  Mirrors,  with  its  vast  expanse  of  mirrors  and  the  view 
of  the  parks  and  gardens  through  its  lofty  windows,  is  not  only 
splendid  with  its  memories  of  the  past  glories  of  the  French 
monarchs  once  reflected  from  its  walls,  but  has  been  given  a 
new  place  in  history  as  the  room  in  which  the  Peace  Confer- 


ence  held  its  sessions.  Most  magnificent  of  all  these  great  halls 
is  the  Gallery  of  Battles,  with  its  seemingly  endless  perspective 
of  busts  of  famous  generals,  its  series  of  historical  paintings,  its 
polished  floor  and  gilded  ceiling. 

But  the  crown  of  Versailles  is  its  immense  park,  with  the 
gardens  and  fountains.  Seen  from  the  steps  at  the  back  of  the 
palace,  one  looks  down  a  long  tree-bordered  vista  of  fountains, 
lawns,  esplanades  and  marble  basins  that  seems  to  end  only  at 
the  horizon  line.  And  everywhere  are  shaded  walks  and  avenues, 
and  amid  the  green  trees  the  multitude  of  marble  statues  that 
people  the  park  of  Versailles.  The  park  is  beautiful  enough  but 
its  supreme  glory  is  found  in  the  magnificent  fountains  whose 
playing  is  called  the  "Grandes  Eaux."  Through  two  long  hours 
we  waited,  but  the  sight  was  splendid  enough  to  have  compen- 
sated for  any  wait.  Promptly  at  four  o'clock  the  Fountain  of 
Latona  began  to  play,  then  the  more  distant  Fountain  of  Apollo. 
From  apertures  of  every  size,  and  set  at  every  conceivable  angle, 
the  flashing  waters  sent  their  columns  of  white  spray  high  into 
the  air,  the  myriad  drops  glittering  like  diamonds  in  the  sun. 
The  eff'ect  was  to  transform  the  whole  scene  into  an  artist's 
dream.  Wherever  one  turned  he  saw  reflected  from  a  still  pool 
or  in  relief  against  a  background  of  green  trees,  those  ever- 
changing,  flashing,  ethereal  columns  of  white  spray.  Moment 
by  moment  the  panorama  held  our  breathless  attention,  then  sud- 
denly the  waters  began  to  fall  lower  and  lower;  then  were  still. 
But  only  with  a  renewed  power  to  find  the  climax  of  their  display 
in  the  Basin  of  Neptune.  Here  in  this  colossal  pool  there  broke 
forth  such  a  bewildering,  coruscating,  rainbow-crowned  outburst 
of  fountains,  geysers,  cascades  as  to  dazzle  the  eyes  and  ravish 
the  soul.  And  as  I  turned  at  the  top  of  the  steps  for  one  lasr 
look  at  this  stupendous  panorama  of  park  and  lane  and  pool  and 
lawn  and  fountain  I  felt  that  I  had  indeed  looked  upon  a  supreme 
creation  of  French  genius  and  art,  a  fairyland  of  beauty  that 
recalled  those  days  when  Louis  the  Magnificent  held  court  amid 
this  royal  splendor.  Over  Versailles  still  hangs  the  glitter  and 
glamour  of  those  golden  days. 


XVI 


"The  dim  dark  speck  in  the  distance  grexv  green  and 
broad  and  large. 

And  lo!  a  minareVs  slender  spear  on  the  line  of  its 
widening   marge; 

And  noiv  ive  rode  in  the  shadow  of  botighs  that  were 
blossom-sweet, 

While  the  gurgle  of  crystal  waters  rilled  up  through 
the  swooning   heat. 

And  sudden  or  ever  we  dreamed  it,  did  the  orchards 
give  apart, 

Ayid  there  was  the  bower ed  city  with  the  flood  of  its 
orient   heart; 

There  was  the  endless  pageant  that  surged  through 

the  arching  gate; 
There  was  the  slim  Bride's  Minaret  and  the  ancient 

"street   called   Straight." 

—C.  SCOLLARD. 


A   STREET   IN    DAMASCUS 
August   26.    1921 


D 


amascus 


FOR  long  hours  we  had  been  riding  across  the  great  table- 
land of  the  Hauran  that  merged  in  the  distance  with  the 
long  slopes  of  the  Lebanon  range.  As  far  as  the  eye  could 
see  was  a  barren  waste  of  rocks  and  the  road  had  become  a  rough, 
rocky  trail  over  which  the  automobile  toiled  slowly.  Now  and 
then  we  passed  a  little  flock  of  goats  near  the  stone  huts  of  a 
Druse  village  with  the  goatherd  seated  nearby,  but  otherwise 
the  land  appeared  deserted. 

At  midday  we  halted  for  lunch  by  a  muddy  little  stream  that 
bore  the  historic  name  of  Pharpar.  Then  we  pushed  on.  The 
unending  rocky  fields  began  to  be  varied  by  patches  of  sand. 
The  heat  was  intense  and  stifling,  the  only  breeze  that  created 
by  the  motion  of  the  car.  We  were  in  the  desert  of  Syria 
— a  land  of  iron  under  a  sky  of  brass.  At  last  we  topped  a  rise 
and  the  guide  pointed  to  where  on  the  distant  horizon  lay  a  line 
of  vivid  green  and  uttered  the  magic  word  "Damascus!" 

It  was  the  open  sesame  to  a  host  of  memories.  Could  those 
rocks  by  the  wayside  speak,  what  tales  they  could  tell — of  Baby- 
lonian, Assyrian,  Egyptian,  Greek,  Roman,  Tartar,  Mongol, 
Bedouin,  Frank — of  that  endless  line  of  traders,  soldiers,  kings, 
priests,  slaves,  pilgrims — who  had  in  the  bygone  centuries  wound 
along  that  old  caravan  road  on  foot  and  horseback  or  camel  and 
in  chariot,  to  stop  even  as  we  were  doing  now, — and  gaze  at  that 
first  view  of  that  green  oasis  in  the  desert.  But  my  wandering 
thoughts  swifty  centered  on  one  traveler  who  had  passed  that 
way  one  midday  long  ago,  and  the  words  sang  themselves  in 
my  ears : 

"As  he  journeyed  with  companions  towards  Damascus — " 

I  shut  my  eyes  for  a  moment  and  was  far  away  across  the 
sea  in  the  dear  church  at  home  and  a  rich  contralto  voice  was 
singing  this  recitative  of  Mendelssohn's  beautiful  aria.  Warmly 
comforting  the  voice  and  the  music  sounded  on — 

"But  the  Lord  is  mindful  of  His  own." 

It  was  on  this  road  and  perhaps  on  this  very  spot  that  that 
light  beyond  the  glory  of  the  noonday  arrested  the  mad  career 
of  Saul,  the  persecutor,  and  that  pleading  voice  from  heaven, — 
"Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest  thou  me?" — transformed  him  from 
the  messenger  of  hate  into  the  apostle  of  love,  and  as  we  sped 


on  along  the  road  the  haunting  refrain  merged  with  the  whir  of 
the  flying  wheels — 

"But  the  Lord  is  mindful  of  His  own." 

Yes,  truly;  and  not  only  in  that  hour  when  he  saved  those 
frightened  Christians  of  Damascus  from  the  sword,  but  where- 
ever  and  whenever  the  souls  of  men  have  turned  to  him  for  help 
and  succor. 

We  were  closer  now, — and  white  buildings  and  graceful  min- 
arets towered  above  the  green  foliage  and  soon  we  were  speeding 
past  groves  of  figs  and  pomegranates  into  the  city  of  Damascus, 
crown  of  Syria,  the  oldest  city  in  the  world.  Everywhere  was 
verdure  and  the  sound  of  running  water.  We  caught  glimpses 
of  gardens  behind  white  walls,  vistas  of  cool  courtyards  with 
rlowers  and  bubbling  fountains,  then  followed  the  silvery  waters 
of  the  Abana  to  the  park  in  the  center  of  the  city.  No  wonder 
that  Damascus — set  like  an  emerald  in  the  midst  of  that  gray 
waste  of  desolation  about  her, — seemed  to  the  desert  dwellers 
who  looked  upon  her  an  earthly  paradise.  No  wonder  that 
Mohammed,  as  the  legend  runs,  refused  to  enter  the  city  lest 
he  be  unable  later  to  enjoy  the  delights  of  the  Moslem  heaven. 

The  muezzin's  call  from  the  minaret  of  the  mosque  sum- 
moned us  forth  that  afternoon  to  a  visit  to  the  bazaars  of 
Damascus — the  meeting  place  of  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Syrians, 
Jews,  Egyptians,  Copts,  Bedouins  from  the  desert,  Circassians, 
Druses,  Turks,  French,  Sudanese,  Libyans — jostled  one  another 
in  the  narrow  crowded  streets.  Long  covered  arcades,  where  one 
passed  from  the  glaring  sun  to  semi-darkness  stretched  on  inter- 
minably. On  either  side  of  the  alley-like  streets  (where  camels, 
donkeys,  push  carts,  men,  women  and  carriages  disputed  the 
right  of  way)  were  little  stalls  open  to  the  street;  full  of  goods 
that  oveiiiowed  onto  the  sidewalk.  Seated  cross-legged  within, 
eager,  garrulous,  the  traders  and  shopkeepers  bargained  and  hag- 
gled just  as  in  the  days  of  Abraham. 

Here  in  the  murky  darkness  amid  dust  and  the  smoke  of 
torch  and  blowpipe  were  the  goldsmiths,  manufacturing  jewelry 
by  methods  as  old  as  the  pyramids.  There  with  a  lathe  of  bow- 
string and  a  toe  for  motor  power  the  wood  turner  was  at  work 
on  spindles  and  chairs.  What  a  medley  of  peoples — a  Babel  of 
sounds,  a  kaleidoscope  of  colors. 

It  was  a  relief  to  step  into  the  calm  of  the  quiet  nearby 
mosque  and  into  a  vast  room,  its  walls  adorned  with  arabesques, 
its  floors  covered  with  hundreds  of  costly  rugs.  On  one  side, 
prostrating  themselves  toward  Mecca  was  a  group  of  men 
engaged  in  prayer.  In  another  corner  sat  a  gray  bearded  man 
with  his  disciples  about  him  explaining  the  sayings  of  the  Koran. 
The  light  was  filtered  through  ancient  windows  of  ruby  and 


amethyst  from  above.  In  the  quiet  of  this  place,  with  its  rever- 
ence and  simplicity  was  Mohammedanism  at  its  best.  But  as 
the  swirl  of  the  streets  enveloped  us  again  and  the  ignorance, 
the  confusion,  the  fanaticism,  the  filth,  the  degradation  thrust 
themselves  upon  us  once  more,  we  looked  upon  Mohammedanism 
at  its  worst.  It  is  a  strange  complex — this  Moslem  faith — and 
Damascus,  where  all  races  and  classes  mingle  in  confusion — seems 
its  fit  habitation.  Nowhere  does  one  feel  as  here  such  a  sense  of 
unutterable  confusion. 


The  soft  pad  of  camels,  the  raucous  bray  of  donkeys,  the 
shouts  of  beggars  and  peddlers,  the  clang  of  the  cymbals  of  the 
lemonade  seller,  the  long  wailing  cry  of  the  muezzin,  the  blare  of 
trumpet  and  beat  of  drum — the  cloying  fragrance  of  Oriental 
perfume,  the  sickening  stench  of  decay  and  filth,  the  warm  scent 
of  dust, — black  clad  women,  stately  Arabs,  menacing  Bedouins, 
sleek  Turks,  veiled  ladies  of  the  harem,  khaki  clad  soldiers, 
ragged  beggars,  repulsive  lepers,  linen  clad  Europeans — crowded 
streets,  gay  cafes,  squalid  houses,  palatial  buildings,  courtyards 
with  plashing  fountains,  graceful  minarets,  crystal  clear  rivers 
and  streams — and.  over  all  this  medley  of  sights  and  smells  and 
sounds — the  romance  of  the  centuries,  the  immemorial  spirit  of 
the  past — that  is  Damascus. 


XVII 

A  Nifflblt  m  Venice 


"/  stood  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand, 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structure  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand; 
A   thousand  years  their  cloxidy  ivings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Looked  to   the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles 
When  Venice  sat  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 
isles." 

—BYRON. 


THE   BRIDGE    OF   SIGHS 
July  25.   1921 


A  Night  in  Venice 


I  WAS  in  a  gondola  on  the  Grand  Canal.  The  swift  but  prosaic 
train  had  been  exchanged  for  this  unique,  picturesque  and 
leisurely  means  of  locomotion,  and,  as  we  slowly  rowed  to 
our  hotel,  before  my  eyes  unrolled  the  panorama  of  ever-recur- 
ring vistas  of  labryrinthine  waterways  and  winding  banks  from 
which  rose  sheer  the  fronts  of  the  famous  old  palaces  of  Venice. 
Here  the  gondolier  pointed  out  the  Palazzo  Rezzonico  in  which 
Browning  died,  then  the  palaces  that  were  once  the  homes  of 
Titian,  Byron,  Richard  Wagner.  But  seen  in  the  glare  of  the 
morning  sun,  these  buildings  looked  anything  but  palatial.  Their 
windows  were  broken,  their  sculptured  facades  dirty  and  crum- 
bling; while  the  touch  of  color  on  their  walls  gave  the  beholder 
that  feeling  of  mingled  pity  and  repulsion  with  which  one  sees 
a  faded  old  woman  striving  by  art  to  restore  her  vanished  beauty. 
Only  the  fine  lines  of  archway  and  window,  the  elaborate  orna- 
mentation of  entrance  and  cornice,  the  beautiful  overhanging 
marble  balconies  remained  as  witness  of  those  golden  days  when 
Venice  was  Queen  of  the  Adriatic  and  these  old  palaces  were 
royal  in  their  splendor,  Venice  by  day  is  dingy  with  age,  her 
palaces  rotting,  her  canals  muddy  and  malodorous.  Under  the 
Rialto  Bridge,  recalling  Shylock  and  Othello,  we  passed  to  the 
great  lagoon  with  its  vista  of  the  island  of  San  Giorgio  with  its 
profile  of  dome  and  campanile,  and  alighted  at  the  Piazzetta. 
Here,  standing  between  those  two  fine  columns  that  for  seven 
centuries  have  guarded  its  portals,  we  looked  upon  the  heart  of 
Venice,  its  world  famous  Piazza  of  St.  Mark.  Before  us  rising 
three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  air,  crowned  with  its  gilded  angel, 
is  the  glorious  campanile,  the  replica  of  the  one  that  collapsed 
two  decades  ago.  But  while  this  structure  is  new,  the  Palazzo 
Reale,  with  its  long  arcades,  the  medieval  clock  tower  with  its 
bronze  figures,  the  Palace  of  the  Doges  with  its  Byzantine  col- 
umns and  variegated  marble  facade,  and  the  great  Church  of  St. 
Mark,  take  us  back  across  the  centuries  to  those  days  of  yore 
when  Venice  was  mistress  of  the  Mediterranean  and  to  her  Ducal 
Palace  came  the  tribute  of  the  world.  As  in  a  dream  I  wan- 
dered through  the  glorious  apartments  of  the  Ducal  Palace  and 
its  great  courtyard,  across  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  to  the  horrible 
old  dungeons,  into  the  great  church  with  its  gold  mosaic,  ala- 
baster columns,  its  wealth  of  color  and  treasures  of  art  and 
history,  into  the  great  Piazza  with  its  swarm  of  pigeons,  and 
standing  under  the  shadow  of  Campanile,  I  looked  at  the  facade 
of  St.  Marks'  with  its  variegated  mass  of  marble  columns 
brought  here  from  all  the  world,  its  much-traveled  quadriga  of 


bronze  horses  above  the  doorway  with  their  romantic  history, 
and  above  the  bewildering  forest  of  belfries  and  domes  and  min- 
arets that  crowns  this  wonderful  complex  of  architecture,  this 
age-old  treasury  of  art,  this  golden  church  of  the  golden  age  of 
Venice.  And  I  could  not  but  remember  that  here  in  this  great 
Piazza  there  had  been  enacted  for  centuries  nearly  all  the  scenes 
in  the  city's  history ;  and  while  the  rest  of  Venice  is  but  a  shadow 
of  her  former  glory,  here  one  still  stands  amid  the  undimmed 
splendor  of  her  past. 


The  next  evening  there  was  a  regatta  on  the  great  lagoon. 
As  darkness  settled  down  on  the  city  we  embarked  in  a  gondola, 
whose  gondolier  in  honor  of  the  gala  night  had  donned  a  white 
linen  costume  with  a  scarlet  sash  about  his  waist.  To  the  con- 
tinuous accompaniment  of  a  torrent  of  liquid  Italian  profanity 
as  we  bumped  our  way  through  a  swarm  of  gondolas,  we  emerged 
from  the  narrow  canal  into  the  bay  of  Venice.  The  waters  were 
deep  black  and  on  the  horizon  stood  out  in  dim  outline  the  dome 
of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute  and  its  nearby  campanile.  Lazily 
we  drifted  on  in  the  soft  warmth  of  the  July  night.  Then  far 
across  the  lagoon  with  the  fitful  gleam  as  of  fireflies  appeared  a 
cluster  of  lights.  One  by  one,  until  it  was  ablaze  with  a  myriad 
colors,  lanterns  were  lighted,  and  there  drifted  toward  us  an 
illuminated  barge,  from  which  to  the  soft  accompaniment  of 
guitars  and  mandolins  there  was  wafted  over  the  waters  one  of 
the  passionate  songs  of  Italy,  sung  only  as  a  group  of  Italians 
can  sing.  And  as  by  magic,  out  of  the  liquid  darkness,  like  a 
flock  of  black  swans,  a  hundred  gondolas  suddenly  appeared,  and 
as  by  one  impulse  moved  upon  the  floating  bar,  there  to  crowd  in 
a  dark  swarm  about  it.  The  soft  light  from  the  colored  lamps  of 
the  barge  illuminated  the  scene,  revealing  now  a  picturesque 
gaily-clad  gondolier,  now  the  lace-scarfed  head  and  white 
shoulders  of  some  w^ealthy  Italian  lady,  now  the  huddled  forms 
of  a  peasant  family  in  their  vari-colored  garments,  now  a  pair  of 
lovers  rapturously  oblivious  of  all  save  the  romance  of  this  their 
perfect  hour  of  bliss.  From  the  white-clad  musicians  came  the 
lilting  strains  of  "Funiculi,  Funicula",  then  a  plaintive  Italian 
ballad,  then  a  marvelous  tenor  voice,  singing  "La  donna  e  mobile." 

Floating  lazily  thus  through  the  enchanted  night,  the  lap- 
ping of  the  waves  against  the  gondola,  the  low  voiced  laughter, 
the  throbbing  guitars,  the  heart-searching  music,  the  shifting 
gondolas,  the  vague  outlines  of  the  palaces  on  the  shore,  the 
drifting  radiance  of  the  barge  aureoled  in  the  dark  waters,  and 
over  all  the  star-gemmed  Italian  sky — made  a  scene  of  haunting 
beauty  and  matchless  loveliness  that  gripped  one's  very  soul. 

And  then — to  crown  the  memory  of  the  night — on  a  sudden 
there  was  the  flare  of  varicolored  lights  along  the  shore,  and  the 
long  line  of  palaces  stood  out  resplendent  again  as  in  their  pris- 


tine  glory,  the  square  of  St.  Mark's  shone  as  with  the  Hght  of 
day,  the  Doge's  Palace  was  transfigured  by  a  warm  brilliance 
from  without  and  within  until  it  glowed  like  a  great  casket  of 
jewels,  and  high  over  all  rose  the  majestic  Campanile,  blazing  like 
a  lofty  beacon  of  living  light,  the  golden  angel  on  its  summit 
poised  between  earth  and  sky  shining  with  a  heavenly  radiance. 
It  was  as  though  by  the  power  of  genii  the  Venice  of  old,  the 
Venice  of  the  Doges,  of  Titian  and  Tintoretto,  Queen  of  the  Adri- 
atic, had  suddenly  risen  from  the  sea.  That  night  I  saw  that  City 
of  Poetry,  of  Romance,  of  Dreams,  radiant  in  all  the  splendor  of 
the  days  of  yore. 


XVIII 


J  ttike  Av(0)i]i 


Floiv  on,  silver  Avon,  in  song  ever  flotvf 
Be  the  swan  on  thy  bosom  still  whiter  than  snow! 
Ever  full  he  thy  stream,  like  his  fame  he  it  spread, 
And  the  turf  ever  hallow' d  which  pilloived  his  head! 

—GARRICK. 


By  the  Avon 


THROUGH  a  mouldering  old  medieval  gate  we  entered  the 
little  village  of  Warwick  and  found  ourselves  transported 
as  by  a  magician's  wand  into  sixteenth  century  England. 
For  the  streets  were  lined  with  old  tottering  timbered  houses 
and  quaint  moss-covered  stone  walls  whose  archways  gave  vistas 
of  dim  courtyards.  And  through  a  winding  avenue  under  fine 
old  elms  and  beeches  we  entered  the  great  bastion  of  Warwick 
Castle  and  were  at  once  surrounded  by  the  Middle  Ages.  Around 
its  bannered  walls  were  battleaxes,  spears  and  armour,  and  in 
its  great  reception-hall  was  a  medieval  knight  upon  his  horse, 
while  from  the  walls  Charles  I,  Henry  VHI  and  the  great  of 
England's  past  looked  down  upon  us.  Through  those  magnificent 
rooms  once  proudly  walked  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  handsome, 
debonair,  the  favorite  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  in  the  nearby 
chapel,  clad  in  full  armour,  his  effigy  lies  recumbent  above  his 
tomb.  Lords  and  ladies,  kings  and  queens,  warriors  and  states- 
men made  brilliant  these  handsome  apartments  and  held  high 
wassail  in  the  great  banqueting-hall.  From  the  windows  of  this 
hall  we  looked  down  upon  an  old  mill  and  the  grass-bordered 
stream  which  bears  the  immortal  name  of  the  Avon. 

After  a  night  in  the  old  "Warwick  Arms",  for  three  hundred 
years  the  inn  of  the  village,  we  set  out  in  the  dewy  morning, 
bound  for  Shakespeare's  haunts.  Through  the  long  winding 
roads  shaded  by  great  elms,  past  sturdy  oaks  standing  in  isolated 
majesty,  alongside  stone  walls  covered  wtih  moss  and  ivy  or 
hedgerows  white  with  tangled  roses,  past  thatched  cottages  bor- 
dered in  flowers,  by  fields  of  velvety  green  sprinkled  with  daisies, 
with  now  and  then  a  picturesque  old  wayside  inn  with  its  quaint 
signboard  and  quainter  name  —  through  England  in  June  we 
drove  over  the  perfect  roads,  and  the  charm  of  England  took 
hold  on  us. 

''England,  countr))  of  my  heart's  desire 
Land  of  the  hedgerow  and  the  village  spire. 
Land  of  thatched  cottages  and  murmuring  bees 
And  TPa^side  inns  rvhere  one  may  tal(e  one's  ease; 
Your  daisied  meadows  and  your  grassy  hills. 
Your  primrose  banjos,  your  parIfs,your  tinl(ling  rills. 
Your  cottage  gardens  with  their  wallflowers  scent. 
Your  swallows  'neath  the  eaves,  your  sweet  content." 

The  poet  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  English  countryside — 
beauty,  peace,  contentment. 

An  hour  of  this  pastoral  scenery  and  we  came  to  Kenilworth. 
Paiddy  in  the  sun's  warm  rays,  with  its  battlements  and  ivy- 


mantled  walls,  its  open  windows  that  frame  the  sky,  this 
romantic  old  ruin  brings  up  before  the  eye  of  memory  the  days 
of  Elizabeth,  when  her  favorite.  Lord  Leicester,  kept  open  house 
for  her  in  this  castle,  with  jousts  and  water  carnivals  on  its 
artificial  lake,  with  feasting  and  dance,  and  on  its  lawns  Will 
Shakespeare  and  his  strolling  players  delighted  the  court  with 
their  acting.  And  the  genius  of  Scott  has  invested  the  ruin  with 
romance  and  glamour  in  his  famous  story. 

From  Kenilworth  it  was  but  a  few  miles  until  we  found  our- 
selves passing  by  Charlecote  Park,  where  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
whom  Shakespeare  caricatured  as  "Justice  Shallow,"  tried  the 
youthful  dramatist  for  deer-stealing  in  the  mansion,  which  we 
could  see  through  the  trees ;  then  we  crossed  the  Avon  and  were 
in  Stratford.  An  unpretentious  old  half  timbered  house  is  the 
birthplace  of  Shakespeare.  Its  rude  walls  and  ruder  furniture, 
its  poverty  and  barreness  recall  the  simple  beginnings  from 
which  ofttimes  the  greatest  souls  do  spring.  The  interior  is  one 
mass  of  autographs  on  walls  and  ceiling,  and  framed  memorials 
of  the  great  poet  are  everyw^here.  It  seems  more  museum  than 
shrine.  But  Anne  Hathaway's  cottage,  with  its  thatched  roof 
and  moss-covered  exterior,  set  in  its  gardens  of  old  fashioned 
tlowers,  stirs  the  romance  in  one's  soul.  And  as  one  enters  the 
old  room  within,  with  its  ancient  stone  floor  and  fireplace,  its 
rough  timbered  ceilings,  and  looks  upon  the  rude  bench  on  which 
Shakespeare  sat  and  wooed  Anne  Hathaway,  one  can  almost  hear 
him  singing  that  most  delightful  of  all  love  songs : — 

"To  melt  the  sad,  mal^e  blithe  the  ga^ 
And  nature  charm,  Anne  hath  a  Tvay; 
She  hath  a  wa^) 
Anne  Hathaivay; 
To  breathe  delight,  Anne  hath  a  Way." 

By  the  river  Avon,  which  winds  like  a  silver  ribbon  through 
its  emerald  banks,  rises  the  beautiful  Trinity  Church  of  Strat- 
ford. Its  peaceful  churchyard,  with  its  mouldering  stones  and 
great  trees,  seems  a  fit  vestibule  for  the  old  church.  It  was  with 
a  feeling  of  awe  that  I  entered,  for  here  on  the  north  side  of  the 
chancel  is  the  grave  of  William  Shakespeare,  the  greatest  poet  of 
the  ages.  On  the  wall  is  a  marble  bust,  and  below  it  a  slab  under 
which  he  sleeps.  All  around  are  beautiful  memorial  windows, 
gifts  of  the  world  in  honor  of  the  bard  of  Avon.  The  rainbow- 
hued  light  fell  softly  on  the  slab  wuth  its  familiar  inscription,  and 
the  sculptured  face  of  the  poet  in  its  niche  seemed  aureoled  wuth 
peace.  And  so  he  sleeps  in  the  quiet  old  church ;  while  the  waters 
of  the  Avon  that  he  loved  murmur  on  unending  requiem,  and  the 
church  spire  is  mirrored  on  its  placid  bosom.  But  that  cloud- 
capped  genius  of  the  bard  of  Avon  dominates  the  centuries,  and 
Stratford  on  the  Avon  has  become  the  shrine  of  the  English- 
speaking  world. 


XIX 


Tike  City  (of  MiimsircBt^ 


"The  cloudless  day   was  well-nigJi  done, 
The  city,  like  an  opal  set 
In   emerald,  shoived  each  'minaret 
Afire   with   radiant   beams  of   sun." 

SCOLLARD. 


OS  2 
< 


S     60 
O     3 

o 
Pi 


The  City  of  Minarets 


THE  long  journey  from  Alexandria  to  Cairo  was  an  unfolding 
panorama  of  that  Egypt  of  which  all  my  life  I  had  read  and 
dreamed.  Ever  since  I  landed  at  Alexandria  I  had  been  as 
one  under  a  spell.  For  this  was  another  world  than  Europe  or 
America.  Everything  familiar  had  disappeared  and  I  was  face 
to  face  with  the  unchanging  East.  Tall  palm  trees  with  their 
tufted  tops  rose  from  the  sand  dunes;  mud  villages  appeared 
with  their  primitive  pumps  with  oxen  slowly  going  round  and 
round  in  their  treadmill.  In  the  deep  irrigating  ditches  of  muddy 
water  floundered  the  clumsy  water  buffalo.  Above  long  mud 
dikes  in  the  distance  could  be  seen  the  innumerable  well-sweeps 
or  shadoofs,  and  the  clustered  sails  of  dahabiyehs,  the  native 
boats,  marking  the  channel  of  the  Nile.  White-robed  and  tur- 
baned  natives  passed  and  repassed  the  door  of  my  compartment 
and  each  station  at  which  we  stopped  was  clamorous  with  the 
chatter  of  guttural  Arabic  and  the  wierd  cries  of  the  vendors 
of  grapes  and  dates.  The  clusters  of  palm  trees  multiplied,  the 
cultivated  fields  were  more  numerous,  and  then  we  suddenly  came 
out  upon  a  long  bridge  and  below  was  a  sluggish  mass  of  muddy 
waters.  It  was  the  Nile,  the  maker  of  that  ribbon  of  fertility 
between  two  deserts,  the  granary  of  the  ancient  world.  I  was  in 
old  Egypt,  land  of  the  Pharaohs  and  the  Ptolemies,  and  as  we 
sped  on  towards  Cairo,  through  the  languorous  heat,  I  felt  about 
me  the  brooding  silence  of  this  changeless  land  which  holds 
enshrined  the  memories  of  the  long-gone  centuries. 

To  sit  upon  the  terrace  of  Shepheard's  Hotel  in  Cairo  and 
watch  the  passing  crowd,  is  to  review  the  inhabitants  of  the  four 
corners  of  the  earth,  to  see  in  panorama  the  West  and  the  East, 
the  past  and  the  present,  the  oldest  and  the  newest  civilization. 
Barefooted  Arab  porters  clad  in  faded  blue  robes,  dirty  Egyptian 
beggars,  black-clad  women  with  ugly  black  yashmaks  veiling 
their  faces,  spruce  English  soldiers,  voluble  French  tourists  clad 
in  the  latest  garments  from  Paris,  keen-eyed  Bedouins  with  their 
gorgeous  robes  and  scimitars ;  lemonade-sellers  with  their  clang- 
ing brass  cymbals,  Greeks,  Syrians,  Italians,  Jev/s — all  pass  by 
along  the  sidewalks.  In  the  street  ragged  men  drive  patient  don- 
keys, wild  looking  desert  dwellers  lead  their  careening  camels, 
brisk  drivers  w^hirl  by  with  their  sleek  horses  and  handsome  car- 
riages in  which  may  often  be  seen  the  white-veiled  women  of  the 
Turkish   harems,   and   in   between   are   great  gray   Rolls-Royce 


limousines,  shiny  black  Cadillacs  and  Buicks  and  the  inevitable 
Ford.    In  Cairo  truly  the  East  and  the  West  do  meet. 

But  when  one  passes  into  the  native  quarter,  he  finds  him- 
self in  the  true  Orient.  A  kaleidoscope  of  colors,  a  babel  of 
sounds,  are  the  narrow  streets  where  flow  the  tides  of  native  life. 
Here  are  the  bazaars,  with  their  bewildering  display  of  rugs  and 
silks,  brass  and  inlaid  woods,  jewelry  and  perfumes,  embroideries 
and  mother  of  pearl.  Here  are  markets  with  their  melons  and 
grapes,  their  figs  and  pomegranates,  their  dates  and  vegetables 
and  all  the  products  of  the  Nile  country.  In  the  old  side-streets 
are  to  be  seen  the  Moorish  facade  and  minaret  of  some  mosque 
or  the  latticed  windows  of  some  harem.  And  through  these 
unpaved  thoroughfares  surges  the  unending  stream  of  humanity, 
every  race,  every  color,  every  language,  every  costume  conceiv- 
able. To  see  the  streets  of  Cairo  is  to  feel  one's  self  bewildered, 
overwhelmed  by  its  din  and  its  confusion.  And  one  comes  away 
with  the  sense  of  having  for  an  hour  been  moving  through  the 
enchanted  pages  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

My  last  afternoon  in  Cairo  I  visited  the  famous  old  citadel 
of  Cairo.  High  above  the  city  it  towers,  grim  with  its  memories 
of  a  bloody  past.  It  has  been  standing  thus  ever  since  the  days 
of  Saladin.  We  drove  up  the  long  winding  road  to  the  citadel 
and  entered  the  Alabaster  Mosque  which  was  erected  as  his  royal 
tomb  by  Mehemet  Ali,  the  cruel  and  cunning  Viceroy  of  Egypt. 
Its  immense  interior  is  covered  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  creamy 
alabaster  and  dependent  from  its  great  dome  the  light  of  a  thou- 
sand hanging  lamps  illuminates  the  gorgeous  tomb  of  Mehemet 
and  the  rich  Oriental  rugs  that  cover  the  floor.  From  the  plat- 
form before  it  I  looked  out  over  the  city  of  Cairo.  Below  me  was 
a  vast  expanse  of  flat  roofed  houses  and  from  their  midst,  a 
veritable  forest  of  minarets  rises  from  the  four  hundred  mosques 
of  Cairo.  Slender,  graceful,  ethereal,  are  these  spires  of  Moham- 
medanism from  whose  lofty  summits  the  muezzin's  wierd  cry 
summons  the  faithful  to  prayer.  Those  myriad  white  taper-like 
towers  make  this  truly  the  City  of  Minarets.  Beyond  the  city, 
stretching  for  miles  between  its  belt  of  tawn  desert,  was  a  strip 
of  green,  and,  winding  through  it,  the  gleaming  ribbon  of  the 
Nile.  And  as  my  eyes  swept  the  horizon  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
desolate  hills  and  the  billowing  sands  of  the  great  Sahara  until, 
dim  at  first,  and  then  growing  clearer  as  I  gazed,  three  mighty 
forms  stood  out  against  the  western  sky — the  pyramids  of  Gizeh. 
Minarets  and  pyramids — and  over  all  the  shimmering  translucent 
heat-haze,  giving  to  the  scene  a  touch  of  elusiveness  and  mys- 
tery— this  was  my  last  view  of  Cairo. 


XX 


Nazareth  town  in  Galilee 

Set  where-  the  paths  lead  np  from  the  sea, 

What   vast  processional  of  stars 

Pageants  over  its  stilled  bazaars 

And  where  the  full  moon  touches  the  height 

Of  Tabor,  a  torch  of  bi-illiant  light, 

Never  was  sight  more  fair  to  see 

Nazareth   toum  in   Galilee. 

—SCOLLARD. 


NAZARETH 


Nazareth 


MIDDAY  found  us  among  the  bold  hills  of  upper  Samaria, 
on  either  side  rocky  slopes  and  parched  brown  herbage, 
monotonous,  unending.  Mile  after  mile  the  road  wound 
through  these  hills  until  we  came  to  a  final  turn  and  below 
us  lay  the  vast  plain  of  Esdraelon,  once  the  bed  of  an  inland 
lake,  ending  on  the  western  horizon  in  the  bold  headland  of  Car- 
mel,  merging  on  the  east  with  the  dim  green  of  the  Jordan  Valley. 
This  great  plain  is  rightly  called  in  the  Apocalypse,  Armageddon, 
the  world's  battlefield.  For  at  least  fifty  battles  have  been 
fought  on  this  plain.  Here  has  been  heard  the  rumble  of  the 
chariot  wheels  of  Thotmes  III,  the  fierce  shouts  of  the  host  of 
Saladin  driving  before  them  the  rout  of  the  Crusaders,  and  only 
yesterday  the  machine  guns  of  General  Allenby  woke  the  echoes 
of  the  Galilean  hills.  Far  across  the  plain  rose  opposite  us  a 
range  of  mountains  rising  abruptly  from  the  plain,  and  nestling 
amid  them  well  up  toward  the  sky  line  was  a  huddle  of  white 
houses — the  little  village  of  Nazareth.  An  hour  later  our  auto- 
mobile had  climbed  the  long  gradient  from  the  plain  below  and 
stood  before  the  Hotel  Galilee  in  Nazareth. 

All  about  were  the  encircling  hills,  for  Nazareth  lies  as  in  a 
hollow  bowl,  environed  by  a  rim  of  rounded  hills.  And  it  was  to 
the  highest  hill  above  the  city  that  we  turned  our  footsteps,  and 
climbed  through  the  steep,  crooked  streets  of  the  village  over 
cobblestones  and  then  up  a  winding  narrow  path  until  we  stood 
upon  the  summit  of  the  hill.  At  our  feet  lay  the  flat-roofed 
houses  of  the  little  village.  There  was  the  Fountain  of  the  Virgin 
with  its  crowd  of  women  with  their  water  jars.  Yonder  was  the 
Church  of  the  Annunciation  and  near  by  was  the  Church  of  the 
Carpenter  Shop.  Yet  none  of  these  could  stir  the  emotions  as 
did  this  bare  rocky  hilltop.  For  these  sacred  sites  are  at  best 
doubtful  and  our  faith  in  their  direct  connection  with  Jesus'  life 
in  Nazareth  is  tenuous  and  uncertain.  But  this  hill  is  surely  hal- 
lowed ground,  for  we  know  that  to  this  vantage  point  the  boy 
Jesus  must  have  climbed  innumerable  times,  and  on  the  hill  top 
the  man  Jesus  must  have  spent  many  a  night  in  prayer.  And 
the  view  on  which  we  looked  that  afternoon  was  the  very  same 
upon  which  His  eyes  had  lingered  often.  And  what  a  view  it  was ! 

To  the  north  just  below  was  the  valley  of  Asochis,  and  on 
the  hilltop  beyond  Safed,  "the  city  set  upon  a  hill,"  and  beyond 
on  the  horizon  snow-clad  Hermon  towered  into  the  blue.  East- 
ward rose  the  green,  rounded  summit  of  Tabor  and  beyond  the 
plains  and  valley  of  the  Jordan.    To  the  westward,  hazy  in  the 


distance,  was  the  long-  ridere  of  Carmel  and  the  dazzling  line  of 
white  sand  and  blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean.  Southwards, 
broken  only  by  the  graceful  outlines  of  Gilboa  and  Little 
Hernion,  lay  the  great  plain  of  Esdraelon,  merging  in  a  mist  of 
vagueness  with  the  hills  of  Samaria.  And  the  whole  scene  was 
touched  by  the  magic  of  the  heat  haze  until  the  great  plain  was  a 
sea  of  mistiness,  the  distant  mountains  floating  like  fairy  ships. 
Here  on  this  very  spot,  with  the  soft  breeze  fanning  His  face, 
Jesus  must  have  watched  the  eagles  poised  in  the  cloudless  blue, 
seen  the  chaff  rise  from  a  hundred  threshing  floors  on  the  plain, 
followed  the  dust-mantled  progress  of  a  caravan  over  the  white 
roads  that  cross  the  landscape.  And  here  w^hen  night  came  on 
He  may  have  dreamed  of  those  distant  regions  beyond  the  shin- 
ing sea  into  which  His  gospel  was  some  day  to  go ;  and  perchance 
here  on  this  lofty  ej^rie,  with  its  wide-stretching  panorama  at 
His  feet,  its  horizons  fused  in  the  soft  moonlight  with  infinity, 
caught  His  vision  of  that  world  kingdom  which  He  preached  and 
for  which  He  died.  Never  have  I  felt  quite  so  close  to  Him  as 
He  walked  among  men  as  I  did  on  that  hilltop  above  Nazareth 
that  He  must  have  loved. 


That  night  I  sat  on  the  balcony  of  the  hotel  and  the  air  was 
filled  with  a  delicious  coolness  as  the  breezes  from  the  sea  swept 
up  the  rocky  defiles  and  rustled  the  branches  of  the  palms  and 
pomegranates.  Here  and  there  a  light  gleamed  from  an  open 
window  but  a  velvety  darkness  slowly  settled  over  the  hills  and 
enwrapped  the  sleepy  village.  Sharp  and  clear  against  the  starry 
sky  the  shoulders  of  the  hills  were  upheaved.  There  was  no 
sound  save  the  whisper  of  the  leaves  and  the  distant  bark  of  a 
watch  dog.  And  as  I  looked  about  me  I  remembered  how  many 
times  from  the  doorw^ay  of  that  carpenter  shop  the  boy  Jesus 
must  have  looked  at  those  encircling  hills  about  and  longed  like 
every  ambitious  lad  to  heed  the  voice  "beyond  the  ranges"  calling 
Him  to  go  out  into  the  great  world.  And  yet  the  years  came  and 
went  and  in  this  sleepy,  gossipy,  petty,  cramped,  circumscribed 
environment  He  remained,  content  to  limit  His  life  within  the 
confines  God  had  set,  waiting  patiently  until  the  divine  voice 
should  call  Him  forth  to  become  the  Saviour  of  the  World.  And 
as  I  mused  that  evening  within  that  hill-girt  village  I  saw  in 
Nazareth  the  type  and  symbol  of  that  limitation  of  life  thai 
environs  us  all.  and  which  may  be,  as  it  was  to  Him,  the  school 
of  the  spirit. 


XXI 

Uflider  ttlke  Dome  of 


"Vastness  whicli  grows,  but  groivs  to  harmonies 
All  musical  in  its  immensities ; 

Rich  marbles,  richer  paintings,  shrines  ivhere  flame 
The  lamp  of  gold,  and  haughty  dome  ivhich  vies 
In    air  with    earth's   chief  structures,    though   their 

frame 
Sits   on    the   firm-set   ground;— and    this    the    cloud 

viust  claivi." 

—BYRON. 


Under  the  Dome  of  St.  Peter's 


No  CHURCH  in  all  the  world  is  so  stupendous  in  size,  so 
magnificent  in  setting,  so  rich  in  history  as  St.  Peter's  in 
Rome.  The  very  approach  to  it,  with  the  gigantic  curv- 
ing colonnades,  the  enormous  circular  court  in  front,  the  lofty 
facade,  the  mighty  dome,  overwhelms  the  beholder  with  awe. 
The  granite  obelisk  in  front  recalls  the  fact  that  this  church 
is  builded  on  the  site  of  the  Circus  of  Nero  where  so  many  Chris- 
tians suffered  martyrdom;  for  this  Egyptian  column  once  stood 
in  that  pagan  ampitheater  and  stands  now,  crowned  with  a 
gilded  cross,  before  this  Christian  church  as  symbol  of  the  tri- 
umph of  Christianity  over  paganism.  And  the  early  history  of 
this  building  was  even  more  vividly  before  us  as  we  later  passed 
through  the  endless  labyrinth  of  crypts  and  chapels  beneath  the 
floor  of  the  present  church  which  are  remains  of  the  old  basilica 
of  Constantine.  We  ascended  the  broad  steps  and  entered.  No 
word  or  picture  can  do  justice  to  that  marvelous  interior.  So 
harmonious  and  symmetrical  are  its  proportions  that  its  vastness 
only  later  dawns  upon  one.  To  let  the  eye  travel  up  and  up 
one  of  these  fluted  columns  until  it  loses  itself  in  the  coffered 
arch  of  gold  far,  far  above,  or  to  see  the  dwarfing  of  distant 
people  in  the  edifice  brings  home  the  fact  that  one  is  in  the  most 
stupendous  building  ever  reared  by  man.  For  St.  Peter's,  with 
its  forty-four  altars,  seven  hundred  and  forty-eight  massive  col- 
umns, its  dozens  of  side  aisles  and  its  hundred  and  thirty  papal 
tombs,  its  army  of  ecclesiastics  and  its  colony  of  workmen  who 
live  in  houses  on  its  roof,  is  in  reality  a  city,  rather  than  a 
building. 

Down  the  immense  nave  we  wandered,  all  about  us  the  mar- 
velous marble  columns  inlaid  with  gold  and  rich  with  colors, 
on  either  side  chapel  after  chapel,  each  in  itself  large  enough 
for  a  church.  Above  these  altars  are  what  seem  at  first  sight 
beautiful  canvases  reproducing  famous  paintings  by  Raphael, 
Guido  Reni,  Michael  Angelo  and  many  other  great  masters.  But 
on  closer  examination,  one  discovers  that  they  are  wonderful 
stone  mosaics,  each  the  work  of  years.  It  is  as  though  not  only 
the  massive  marble  walls  and  pillars  but  even  the  pictures  in  this 
great  church  were  made  to  endure  for  eternity.  All  around  the 
walls  we  passed  the  papal  tombs,  each  with  its  sculptured  monu- 
ment, each  one  a  masterpiece.  Out  of  that  bewildering  array 
one  stands  out  as  the  most  impressive  and  beautiful — the  mauso- 
leum of  Clement  XHI.  The  genius  of  Canova  has  represented 
above  the  crypt  the  pontiff  kneeling  in  prayer,  while  on  one  side 


stands  the  fig-ure  of  Religion,  with  uplifted  cross,  and  on  the 
other  the  Genius  of  Death,  an  angel  figure  of  exquisite  beauty. 

In  the  center  of  St.  Peter's  is  its  High  Altar,  under  the 
mighty  flood  of  light  of  the  great  dome.  Over  it  stands  a  colossal 
canopy  of  bronze  borne  aloft  on  spiral  columns  of  gold  a  hundred 
feet  in  the  air ;  but  in  St.  Peter's  its  magnitude  is  dwarfed  by  its 
sourroundings.  Before  it  is  a  broad  curving  marble  balustrade, 
and  below  a  great  ci-ypt,  lighted  by  eighty-nine  ever  burning 
lamps,  into  which  a  double  flight  of  mable  steps  descends.  Here 
under  this  high  altar  is  that  which  this  church,  into  which  such 
untold  wealth  has  been  poured,  was  builded  to  preserve  forever — 
the  mortal  remains  of  a  poor  fisherman  ot  Galilee;  for  this  glo- 
rious cathedral  is  but  his  tomb.  And  one  wonders  what  that  blunt, 
hard-fisted,  red-blooded,  impulsive,  intensely  human,  lovable 
Simon  Peter  would  think  could  he  see  the  splendors  amid  which 
lie  his  bones. 

Standing  here  I  gazed  upwards  into  that  glorious  dome.  On 
the  frieze  far  above  in  golden  letters  were  the  words  of  Jesus 
spoken  to  His  disciple  so  long  ago—*  Thou  art  Peter  and  on  this 
rock  I  will  build  my  church."  All  glittering  with  golden  mosaics, 
the  interior  of  the  dome  seemed  a  great  golden  abyss  filled  with 
light.  To  look  into  it  steadily  made  one  reel,  so  vast  its  propor- 
tions, so  lofty  its  height.  Truly  Michael  i^ngelo  fulfilled  his 
promise  to  "hang  the  Pantheon  in  mid-air"  when  he  reared  thi:s 
majestic  dome  toward  heaven.  And  as  I  stood  under  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter's  by  the  wondrous  tomb  of  the  apostle,  I  could  not 
but  think  of  its  eloquent  testimony  to  the  eternal  influence  of  a 
great  soul.  A  life  of  poverty,  a  death  of  shame, — this  was  the 
lot  of  Peter, — yet  today  to  the  memory  of  that  simple  peasant, 
whose  noble  life  and  martyr  death  were  the  very  incarnation  of 
the  spirit  of  his  Master,  rises  this  most  splendid  edifice  in  the 
world. 


XXII 


The  Glory  of  ttke  Alps 


"Thou  too  again  stupendous  mountain!  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  boived  loiv, 
Solemnly  seemest  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me  — rise,  O  ever  rise. 
Rise  like  a  spirit  of  incense  from  the  earth! 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great   hierarch!   tell   thou  the  silent  sky 
And  tell  the  stars  and  tell  yon  rising  sun 
Earth,  with   her  thousand  voices,  praises   God." 

—S.   T.  COLERIDGE. 


VIEW    OF   THE   MATTERHORN    FROM    GORNERGRAT 


The  Glory  of  the  Alps 


THE  morning  was  cold  and  the  clouds  hung  heavy  over  the 
mountains  that  hold  the  little  Swiss  village  of  Zermatt  in 
their  close  embrace,  as  we  boarded  the  little  train  and  the 
puffing  engine  began  its  long  climb  up  the  cog-railway  to  Gorner- 
grat.  In  a  few  minutes  we  had  entered  the  pine-forested  slopes 
and  crossed  a  dark  gorge  with  its  roaring  waterfall;  and  then 
through  a  break  in  the  trees  we  caught  sight  far  below  us  of  the 
long  white  ribbon  of  the  River  Visp,  winding  through  the  green 
fields  of  the  valley,  with  its  border  of  scattered  brown  chalets 
ending  in  the  huddle  of  hotels  and  stores  that  marked  the  site 
of  the  village.  On  we  went,  higher  and  higher  through  the  Riff  el 
forest,  shut  in  by  rocky  slopes  dense  with  fir  and  pine,  and  all 
along  the  way  were  cool  sylvan  glades,  rushing  mountain  rills, 
and  tiny  waterfalls.  Then  we  rounded  a  turn  in  the  road  and 
before  us  rose  the  Matterhorn,  all  hidden  in  the  mist  save  its 
topmost  peak,  which  gleamed  like  a  white  spear  point  above  the 
clouds.  Higher  yet,  and  now  below  us  lay  the  whole  long  valley 
of  the  Visp  losing  itself  in  the  distance  in  that  great  gorge 
through  the  mountains  with  its  rushing  stream  that  is  the  only 
means  of  entrance  to  this  mountain-girt  valley;  and  on  beyond 
were  the  piled-up,  mist-wreathed  black  masses  of  the  mountains 
merging  at  last  with  the  horizon.  We  were  in  Alpine  pastures 
now,  with  their  fiocks  of  goats  and  sheep,  flower-strewn  meadows 
of  deep  grass  amid  rocks  and  precipices  that  echo  to  the  sweet 
sound  of  the  Alpine  horn.  Again  we  entered  a  long  defile,  and 
then  suddenly  there  burst  upon  us  the  first  glimpse  of  that  great 
range  of  snow  capped  peaks  of  which  the  Matterhorn  is  but  a 
part  and  which  are  unseen  from  the  village  below;  and  we  found 
ourselves  at  the  little  station  of  Riffelalp.  We  had  lost  sight  of 
the  valley  now  and  were  in  a  vast  Alpine  upland  bordered  by 
vistas,  ever  changing  and  ever  enlarging,  of  peaks,  and  glaciers 
and  snow-slopes  and  gorges.  It  was  cold  and  the  mist  that 
enwrapped  us  had  changed  to  rain.  And  now  the  track  ran  out 
on  a  great  ledge  ending  in  a  bare  peak,  a  rocky  promontory 
thrusting  out  a  natural  observation  gallery  into  the  midst  of  that 
vast  panorama  of  Alpine  scenery.  Slowly,  through  a  rain  that 
had  turned  to  snow,  the  little  engine  toiled  up  the  terrible  grade 
to  the  summit  of  Gornergrat,  this  isolated  peak,  and  we  were  at 
the  end  of  our  journey.  Numb  with  cold  and  light-headed  from 
the  great  altitude,  we  climbed  the  slope  to  the  large  stone-walled 
platform  above,  and  before  us  was  a  panorama  that  made  us 
forget  all  cold  and  discomfort.     Directly  below  us  lay  the  gray- 


ish  dirty  moraine  of  the  Gorner  glacier,  merging  with  the  blue- 
green  of  the  great  ice  field  above,  and  this  in  tura  with  the  daz- 
zling white  slopes  of  virgin  snow  that  led  upward  to  such  an 
encorcling  group  of  Alpine  giants  as  can  be  seen  nowhere  else 
in  Switzerland.  Thrusting  their  bare  black  shoulders  through 
the  snow,  jagged  and  terrible  against  the  sky,  were  the  peaks  of 
the  nearer  mountains;  while  beyond  and  above  towered  the  eter- 
nal snow-covered  summits  of  the  highest  Alps,  soaring  14,000  feet 
into  the  blue.  All  around  the  horizon  was  the  continuous  line  of 
Alpine  summits  —  Lyskamm,  Stralhorn,  Castor  and  Pollux, 
Breithorn,  Mischabelhorn,  Weisshorn,  Gabelhorn,  Dent  Blanche, 
Monte  Rosa — an  endless  cordon  of  sentinels  keeping  watch  over 
this  mighty  realm  of  ice  and  snow.  All  was  utterly  silent  on  those 
lofty  heights  save  for  the  thunder  of  an  occasional  avalanche. 
The  over-arching  vault  of  heaven  seemed  very  near,  this  encom- 
passing panorama  of  ice  and  snow  like  the  vision  of  the  Great 
White  Throne  of  the  Almighty. 

The  clouds  were  growing  lighter  above  us  and  here  and 
there  appeared  a  patch  of  blue  sky.  The  light  grew  brighter, 
the  snow  ceased,  and  suddenly  the  sun  shone  through  the  mists, 
turning  the  mountain  peaks  into  jewels  of  dazzling  brilliance, 
making  the  vast  snowfields  scintillate  like  diamonds.  Slowly  the 
heavy  clouds  that  all  day  had  shrouded  the  Matterhorn  rolled 
back  like  a  curtain, and  before  us  there  stood  revealed  in  all  its  ter- 
rible majesty  that  imposing  pyramid  of  rock  that  towers  toward 
the  zenith  until  it  almost  seems  to  touch  the  sky — colossal,  over- 
powering, stupendous,  Monarch  of  the  Alps,  the  most  impressive 
mountain  in  the  world.  Even  from  the  great  height  on  ^^hich 
we  stood  it  seemed  to  tower  as  high  above  us  as  when  we  looked 
up  at  it  from  the  village  in  the  valley  below.  It  domi- 
nated, with  its  soaring  summit,  even  those  giant  peaks  and  lofty 
plateaus  of  snow.  And  as  it  frowned  down  upon  us,  its  snow- 
clad  slopes  gleaming  in  the  sun,  its  finger  of  black  granite  pierc- 
ing the  sky,  bannered  with  long  streamers  of  white  mist,  tremen- 
dous in  its  lift  and  gi'eat  in  its  lofty  isolation — its  awful  glory 
was  transcendent,  ovenvhelming.  One's  soul  stood  in  the  very 
presence  of  the  might  and  majesty  of  God.  Never,  until  mine 
eyes  see  the  splendors  of  the  world  above,  do  I  expect  to  see  so 
sublime  a  vision  as  I  beheld  that  day  when  I  stood  face  to  face 
with  the  glory  of  the  Alps. 


XXIII 

Tlie  ClhiLiLFcdh  (of  the 
H(Q)ly  SepeleliFe 


"The  lamps  ivere  burning  over  sacred  graves, 
And  the  holy  light  gleams  from,  Helena's  naves, 
Fed  with  the  incense  which  the  pilgrim  brings. 
While  through  the  panelled  roof  the  cedar  flings 
Its  sainted  arms  o'er  choir  and  roof  and  dotne, 
And  every  porphyry-pillared  cloister  rings 
To  every  traveller  thus  its  welcome  home." 

—BRAINARD. 


THE  (  HURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 


The  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 


ONLY  the  lure  of  a  visit  to  the  most  famous  shrine  in  Chris- 
tendom could  have  persuaded  me  to  forsake  the  cool  cor- 
ridors of  the  hotel  that  Sunday  afternoon.  For  the 
Aug-ust  sun  was  blazing  on  the  white  houses  and  gray  walls  of 
the  city  of  Jerusalem,  as  my  guide  and  1  stepped  out  into  the 
square  by  the  Jaffa  Gate,  and  the  heat  was  as  that  of  a  furnace. 

We  passed  quickly  into  the  comparative  shade  afforded  by 
the  hig-h  walls  of  the  narrow  alley  that  is  dignified  by  the  name 
of  David  Street,  (and  is  the  Champs  Elysees  of  Jerusalem)  and 
stumbled  down  its  slope  of  slippery  cobblestones  toward  the  old- 
est part  of  the  city.  On  either  side,  making  more  narrow  the 
way,  were  stalls  of  merchants,  trays  of  fruits  and  vegetables, 
push  carts  and  crates,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  Oriental  trade. 
On  every  side  was  the  shrill  chatter  of  bargaining  and  only  here 
and  there  did  one  see  a  shuttered  shop — for  in  this  Judeo-Moslem 
city  the  Christian  Sunday  is  "more  honored  in  the  breach  than 
the  observance."  Making  our  way  through  the  jostling  throng 
of  Turks,  Arabs  and  Jews,  now  and  then  flattening  one's  self 
against  the  wall  to  escape  the  ever  present  donkey  or  camel,  we 
came  shortly  to  a  side  street  which  ended  in  a  large  open  court- 
yard roughly  paved  with  huge  blocks  of  stone,  and  with  pedi- 
ments and  fragments  of  pillars  around  it.  This  court  was  once 
occupied  by  the  basilica  builded  by  Constantine,  of  which  now 
only  these  broken  pillars  remain. 

At  the  farther  side  of  the  court  rose  a  facade  of  weather- 
beaten  gray  stone,  surmounted  by  a  rude  cupola,  with  two  ugly 
arched  windows  in  its  second  story  and  on  the  ground  level  two 
arched  doorways,  one  of  which  is  now  filled  up  with  stone.  The 
building  is  neither  impressive  nor  beautiful,  yet  this  is  the  front 
of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  sacred  to  Christianity  for 
sixteen  centuries. 

Stepping  through  the  narrow  doorway  we  found  ourselves 
in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  vast  interior,  where  under  its  one 
huge  roof  are  five  monasteries,  thirty  chapels  and  seventy  sacred 
sites  of  Bible  history.  The  floor  was  worn  smooth  as  glass  by 
centuries  of  pilgrim  feet  and  the  kisses  of  countless  multitudes. 
Here  and  there  in  the  murky  light  one  could  see  the  kneeling 
figure  of  a  pilgrim  kissing  the  stone  floor  in  reverent  adoration. 
Up  a  flight  of  steps  deep  worn  by  ages  of  use  my  guide  led  me 
to  a  large  platform  where  at  one  side  is  the  Rock  of  Ages,  the 
rock  of  Calvary.     A  square  hole  in  the  center  of  a  silver  star 


under  a  canopy  of  silver  lamps  marks  the  spot  where  once  stood 
the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  near  by  is  the  crack  in  the  rocky  sur- 
face made  by  the  earthquake.  And,  even  as  we  looked  upon  this 
little  shrine,  a  man  in  pilgrim's  garb,  moving  forward  over  the 
smooth  pavement  on  his  knees,  leaned  down  and  with  tears  and 
murmured  prayers  reverently  kissed  this  spot  that  to  him 
marked  the  place  where  the  Saviour  of  mankind  was  crucified. 

The  strong  sonorous  chant  of  many  voices  filled  the  air  and 
moving  now  to  the  edge  of  this  elevated  platform  upon  which 
we  stood  I  looked  down  upon  a  never  to  be  forgotten  scene.  Just 
below  was  a  great  marble  slab,  yellow  with  age,  with  large  golden 
tapers  burning  at  its  head  and  foot,  and  kneeling  about  it  was 
a  large  band  of  brown-robed  Franciscan  friars,  taper  in  hand, 
chanting  the  solemn  Latin  liturgy,  while  over  their  heads  bil- 
lowed the  fragrant  clouds  of  incense  as  the  attendant  priests  in 
their  gorgeous  robes  waved  golden  censers  at  the  foot  and  the 
head  of  the  Stone  of  Anointing  where  the  body  of  Jesus  is  said 
to  have  once  been  laid.  The  shafts  of  dim  golden  sunlight  from 
the  windows  far  above  filtering  through  the  smoke  of  the  incense 
upon  the  cowled  heads,  the  moving  figures  of  the  priests,  glim- 
mering through  the  haze,  the  strange  and  solemn  cadences  of 
the  music  of  the  chant — gave  to  the  scene  an  unearthly  beauty 
and  a  sacred  charm.  What  if  this  shrine  be  builded,  as  all  stu- 
dents of  Jerusalem's  history  believe,  upon  a  site  that  is  not  the 
real  Calvary  of  the  Gospels?  What  if  the  many  Bible  sites,  like 
the  tomb  of  Adam,  to  which  one  is  pointed  under  this  roof,  be 
but  the  response  of  a  complaisant  church  to  the  demand  of  ignor- 
ant and  fanatical  pilgrims?  Here  at  least,  in  this  reverential 
band  of  devout  souls,  was  a  pure  and  untroubled  faith.  Call  it 
superstition  if  you  will,  no  Christian  could  look  upon  that  scene 
unmoved.  For  it  was  humanity  itself,  clothed  in  the  brown  robes 
of  penitence  and  humility,  kneeling  in  hushed  and  reverent  love 
before  that  Christ  who  died  for  love  of  man,  that  I  saw  in  those 
kneeling  figures  that  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  perfumed  twilight 
of  that  ancient  shrine. 

From  that  solemn  scene  it  was  but  a  few  steps  until  we 
stood  before  the  little  chapel  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  whose  real 
dignity  and  impressiveness  have  been  almost  lost  in  the  absurd, 
childish  and  meaningless  exterior.  The  first  view  makes  one 
recoil.  A  small  square  building  built  of  highly  colored  limestone, 
it  has  been  almost  buried  from  sight  under  a  mass  of  faded,  dusty 
pictures,  ikons,  banners  and  candles.  But  the  interior  redeems 
it.  One  enters  first  into  a  little  vestibule,  ablaze  with  golden 
lamps,  and  then  one  by  one,  permission  is  given  to  enter  the  inner 
shrine.  When  my  turn  came  I  stooped  low  and  found  myself 
within  a  tiny  marble  walled  compartment,  seven  feet  long  and 
six  feet  wide.  At  one  end  stood  a  black  robed  priest  guarding 
the  holiest  place  in  Christendom.    Above  my  head  blazed  forty- 


three  golden  lamps  and  the  air  was  hot  and  heavy  with  incense. 
On  my  right  was  a  niche  in  which  was  a  marble  slab  cracked  and 
yellow  with  age,  and  polished  like  a  mirror  with  the  kisses  of 
millions.  Here  once  laid,  so  tradition  says,  the  lifeless  body  of 
the  Saviour  of  mankind. 

And  as  I  came  away  out  of  the  murky  twilight  of  that 
ancient  sanctuary  into  the  light  of  day  I  could  not  but  think  of 
the  place  that  old  church  had  played  in  human  history.  To  res- 
cue it  from  the  Saracen  four  million  of  the  bravest  of  Europe 
laid  down  their  lives  in  the  Crusades,  and  for  these  many  cen- 
turies since  it  has  been  the  prayer  of  millions  that  that  lost 
cause  might  some  day  be  won,  and  the  tomb  of  Christ  be  restored 
to  Christendom.  We  have  lived  to  see  that  day  and  for  the  first 
time  in  centuries  the  sepulcher  of  Christianity's  founder  belongs 
no  longer  to  the  followers  of  an  alien  faith.  And  of  vastly  more 
importance  than  the  influenc  eof  this  old  church  upon  the  politics 
and  history  of  mankind  is  its  testimony  to  the  undying  vitality 
of  the  Christian  religion.  Somehow  I  felt  as  never  before  as  I 
stood  for  that  moment  in  the  warm  brilliance  of  that  inner  tomb 
how  much  the  Christ  meant  to  men.  These  eager  pilgrims  that 
tearfully  kissed  that  marble  slab,  even  though  it  may  never  have 
held  the  sacred  body  of  Jesus,  bore  witness  thereby  to  that 
undying  love  of  Jesus  that  flames  in  the  human  breast.  Catholic 
or  Protestant,  what  matters  it,  so  long  as  that  passion  for  Jesus 
inspires  us  alike.  And  I  thought  as  I  turned  for  a  last  look  at 
that  old  gray  stone  church  of  those  beautiful  lines  of  Whittier — 

"O  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all 
Whate'er  our  name  or  sign 
We  ofpn  Th))  slPap,  n>e  hear  Thy  call 
We  test  our  lives  t\j  Thine." 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  835  970    5' 


8fi-.^^.. 


